RIDERS  UP  I 


RIDERS  UP! 


BY 

GERALD  BEAUMONT 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK     ::    LONDON     ::    MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright  19Z1,  1922,  by  the  Story  Press  Corporatioo 

PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 


^^Mo^  sensitive  than  a  woman;  mo'  coura- 
geous than  a  man:  the  thoroughbred,  suh 
— God  and   Vi^giniar' 

Toast  of  the  Arlingtons 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.  Lil'  Ol'  Red  Stockings     ....  i 

II.  Shooting  Star 28 

III.  Star  of  Israel 55 

IV.  When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home  88 
V.  The  Christmas  Handicap  ....  119 

VI.  Oh,  Susanna! 153 

VII.  Mud  and  Ninety-five 195 

VIII.  Thoroughbreds 232 

IX.  The  King  of  the  Also-Rans  .      .     .  265 

X.  The  Empty  Stall 296 


RIDERS  UP! 

I.     LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

Past  the  paddock  and  on  to  the  stand. 
Whip  and  heel  and  spur  and  hand; 
Buckle  to  buckle  and  knee  to  knee — 
Bridle  to  bridle — "Shake  her  free! 
Up  on  the  shoulders — lift  her  on! 
The  little  mare's  got  him — on,  go  on! 

— Rhymes  of  a  Railbird. 

''  TT^OURTEEN  HUNDRED !" 

Jp        "Fifteen!" 

"  'Fifteen  hundred,'  says  the  gentleman; 
"fifteen  hundred  for  the  little  daughter  of  Lord 
Valor  out  of  True  Blue — a  bit  dicky  in  the  legs, 
but  no  better  blood  in  America.  Fifteen,  do  I  hear 
sixteen?  Speak  up,  boys — she  beat  Jack  Tar  a 
head  on  the  post  carrying  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
one  pounds!  Make  it  sixteen  hundred  and  you 
lead  her  away.  Fifteen  once  .  .  .  Fifteen  twice  .  .  ." 

Old  Sandy  McKee  passed  a  trembling  hand 
across  his  mouth.  His  eyes  arrested  the  attention 
of  the  man  on  the  box;  fingers  fumbled  in  a  vest 
pocket  and  produced  a  heavy  gold  timepiece.  He 
held  it  up. 

I 


•RIDERS  UP! 


"Fifteen  and  the  watch,"  he  quavered.  "It's 
worth  two  hundred — a  double  split  second  re- 
peater, listen!"  He  pressed  a  hidden  spring. 
From  his  upraised  hand,  a  tiny  gong  sounded  the 
half  hour  by  quarters,  and  then  in  deeper  cadence 
the  hour  itself. 

The  auctioneer  smiled  indulgently.  "Fifteen 
hundred  and  the  watch  for  Lady  Courageous." 

"Seventeen  hundred,"  said  a  voice. 

Sandy  McKee  lowered  his  hand.  His  shrunken 
figure  relapsed  into  drab  nonentity;  his  faded 
blue  eyes  studied  the  tan  turf  at  his  feet. 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  on  the  inner 
fringe  of  the  circle.     A  man  in  his  early  thirties, 
attired  a  bit  too  jauntily  for  the  average  horse- 
man, stepped  forward  and  held  up  two  fingers     ] 
to  the  auctioneer.    The  latter  nodded. 

"Two  thousand  dollars  from  the  owner  of 
Lady  Courageous.  Mr.  Pennington  retains  his 
mare.  That  ends  the  sale,  boys."  He  scrambled 
off  the  stand,  and  the  crowd  melted,  leaving  Tod 
Pennington  frowning  upon  Sandy  McKee. 

"You're  an  old  fool,  Sandy,"  commented  Pen- 
nington, "an  obstinate  old  fool.  Not  alone  must 
you  come  clear  across  the  continent  to  fight  with 
the  best  trainer  in  Kentucky,  but  you  would  beg- 
gar yourself  for  a  stall-warmer." 

2 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

Sandy  McKee  winced.  "Not  that,"  he  pro- 
tested, "she'll  start  again." 

"Piffle!  Here,  boy!"  Pennington  hailed  a 
passing  groom.     "Bring  out  Lady  Courageous." 

But  McKee  interfered  hastily.  "You  can't 
show  me  anything  I  don't  know.  I've  slept  in 
her  stall  every  night  for  two  weeks.  She  has 
bowed  tendons  on  the  two  front  legs,  her  feet 
are  contracted  and  she  has  a  bad  frog." 

"And  the  devil's  own  temper,"  added  Penning- 
ton.   "Now,  why  do  you  want  her?" 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Sandy.  They  walked 
along  the  row  of  whitewashed  stalls  until  they 
came  to  a  little  bay  mare  arching  her  neck  over 
the  half-door  of  her  compartment. 

"Easy,"  warned  Pennington,  and  kept  a  respect- 
ful distance,  but  McKee  walked  quietly  to  the  stall 
door  and  stood  there  with  arms  at  his  sides. 

For  a  moment  the  mare  withdrew  her  head 
with  the  ears  twitching,  but  as  McKee  made  no 
move,  the  velvet  nose  protruded  timidly,  and  as 
a  blind  girl  might  pass  deft  fingers  lightly  over 
her  lover's  face  the  delicate  tactile  hairs  and 
sensitory  nerves  located  in  the  soft  pad  at  the 
end  of  the  muzzle  felt  of  Sandy  McKee's  hands, 
and  up  along  one  arm  to  his  neck  and  features. 
Still  he  made  no  move.  The  shapely  head  low- 
ered to  his  shoulder  and  nudged  impatiently. 

3 


RIDERS  UP! 


"Memory,'*  explained  McKee.  He  slid  one 
hand  along  the  mare's  neck  and  rubbed  the  space 
between  the  ears  and  then  down  over  the  eyes, 
pressing  his  fingers  firmly  over  the  skin  and  always 
in  one  direction.  "She  remembers  how  her 
mother  licked  her  on  the  head  and  neck  when 
she  was  a  foal;  it's  better  than  patting,  isn't  it, 
old  girl?    Now,  listen!" 

He  lowered  his  head  over  cupped  hands.  As 
if  from  far  off  came  the  faint  strains  of  the  bugle- 
call  to  the  post. 

Lady  Courageous  jerked  her  head  in  the  air, 
small  ears  quivering.  Her  bandaged  legs  trem- 
bled. In  the  luminous  eyes  the  high  lights  danced 
as  she  stared  with  distended  nostrils  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  track. 

"Imagination,"  whispered  Sandy  McKee.  "She 
sees  herself  facing  the  webbing  right  now.  Easy, 
you  lil'  ol'  red  stockings — I  shouldn't  have  teased 
you." 

He  came  slowly  back  to  Pennington. 

"Why  does  a  man  want  his  own  child?"  he 
asked  simply.  "When  Lady  Courageous  was 
foaled.  Colonel  Pennington  says  to  me:  'Sandy, 
I'll  let  you  name  her  and  I  want  you  to  watch  over 
her  like  she  was  your  own  flesh  and  blood.  The 
grandest  little  filly  in  the  world,  Sandy — all  of 
Lord  Valor's  courage  and  stamina,  and  all  of  her 

4 


LIU  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

mother's  speed  and  gentleness.  Some  day,  Sandy, 
she'll  win  the  Pennington  Handicap  just  as  her 
sire  did.'  So  I  named  her  Lady  Courageous  and 
used  to  lay  awake  nights  worrying  about  her.  And 
then,"  Sandy  McKee's  eyes  wandered  over 
the  empty  grandstand  in  the  distance — "then — 
the  Colonel  died,  and  you  left  me  at  the  farm, 
and  hired  Jake  Mantor,  who  rushed  her  out  as  a 
two-year-old,  and — " 

He  did  not  finish. 

Under  the  mask  of  cynical  Indifference  that 
contrasted  oddly  with  Tod  Pennington's  nut- 
brown  eyes  and  boyish  features,  the  warm  blood 
coursed  to  the  surface. 

"I  thought  It  was  something  like  that  when  you 
held  up  the  watch,"  he  commented.  "My  father's, 
wasn't  it?" 

McKee  nodded.  "He  gave  It  to  me  when 
Valor  hung  up  the  mile  and  a  quarter  mark  at 
Latonia." 

"And  the  little  mare — what  were  you  going  to 
do  with  her?" 

Sandy  McKee  turned  wide  eyes  on  his  former 
employer.  "Why,  take  her  back  to  California 
and  build  her  up  again." 

"And  then?" 

Sandy  shrugged.  "I  don't  know,"  he  muttered, 
but  the  light  in  his  pale  eyes  betrayed  him. 

5 


RIDERS  UP! 


**Damn  me!"  exclaimed  Pennington,  "damn 
me,  if  I  don't  think  you'd  bring  her  back  in  the 
old  colors  and  start  her  in  the  Pennington  Handi- 
cap!" 

Sandy  McKee's  lip  twitched  an  affirmative. 
Somehow,  standing  there  in  his  faded  clothes, 
sublime  in  the  singleness  of  his  faith  and  pur- 
pose, he  seemed  to  typify  not  so  much  the  romance 
and  vicissitudes  of  the  race-track  as  the  unfalter- 
ing and  faithful  spirit  of  the  thoroughbred. 

Tod  Pennington  tore  a  leaf  from  a  pocket 
memorandum-book  and  penciled  a  brief  inscrip- 
tion.   He  handed  the  paper  to  Sandy  McKee. 

It  was  a  bill  of  sale  acknowledging  for  value  re- 
ceived the  transfer  of  Lady  Courageous.  With 
something  strangely  suggestive  of  old  Colonel 
Pennington's  charm  of  manner,  he  hushed  the 
other's  stammering. 

"Afy  thanks  to  J^ow,  Sandy.  Take  the  little 
mare  west  and  be  good  to  her.  The  old  cerise 
and  green  forever,  eh,  Sandy !  Gad,  I  didn't  think 
there  was  that  much  sentiment  left  in  the  world. 
You  Scotch  are  a  wonderful  people.  God's  luck 
to  you!" 

That  night,  Sandy  McKee  and  all  that  was  left 
of  the  famous  Pennington  string  departed  in  a 
box-car   for   California.     Not  until  long  after- 

6 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

ward  did  McKee  learn  that  the  sale  he  had  at- 
tended that  day  had  been  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  pay  off  the  family  debts,  and  that  he  had 
left  Tod  Pennington  lacking  just  two  thousand 
dollars  of  having  a  cent  to  his  illustrious  name. 

The  little  town  of  Pleasanton  drowses  in  the 
sunlight  forty-one  miles  east  of  San  Francisco. 
It  is  a  pearl  strung  on  a  slender  stream  that  winds 
over  the  level  floor  of  the  Livermore  Valley.  Low 
hills  encircle  it,  tawny  yellow  in  summer,  emerald 
green  in  winter.  From  an  eminence  to  the  south- 
west the  Hacienda  del  Pozo  de  Verona  looks 
down  upon  a  race-track. 

Hither  in  the  winter  months  from  Canada  on 
the  north  and  the  Atlantic  seaboard  on  the  east 
come  shrewd  trainers  and  gallant  horses  seek- 
ing the  seclusion  of  the  quiet  hills  and  soft  Arcad- 
ian air.  And  into  this  setting  one  late  October 
afternoon  plodded  a  little  old  man  leading  a 
broken-down  bay  mare.  Half-way  along  the 
shaded  lane  that  stretches  from  the  Southern 
Pacific  station  to  the  long  lines  of  cool  stalls  the 
man  paused  to  look  back  solicitously. 

The  mare  shifted  her  weight  from  one  ban- 
daged foreleg  to  the  other  and  with  upraised  head 
stared  at  her  surroundings. 

"WeVe  almost  there,"  encouraged  the  man, 
7 


RIDERS  UP! 


''just  a  little  ways  more.  Didn't  know  where  old 
Sandy  was  taking  you,  did  you?  See  anything 
familiar  about  those  barns  right  ahead?'* 

Lady  Courageous  whinnied  and  limped  for- 
ward. 

"Uh-huh,'*  corroborated  McKee,  "same  old 
home;  going  right  back  to  the  very  stall  where 
you  was  born,  too !  Ain't  changed  a  bit,  Lady — 
not  one  bit.  Still  got  your  mammy's  and  your 
daddy's  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  it's  cool  and 
dark  and  quiet.  That  ain't  all,  either,  Lady;  to- 
morrow old  Doc  Kelly  looks  you  over  and  we 
start  to  patch  them  legs." 

Chuckling  contentedly  he  led  the  way  along 
familiar  paths  past  the  office  of  Barney  Gllligan, 
superintendent  of  the  track,  and  along  the  last 
avenue  of  low  white  stables.  He  stopped  triumph- 
antly before  the  open  half-door  of  a  box  stall  at 
the  extreme  end. 

"Pretty  far  from  the  winner's  circle  at  La- 
tonia,"  he  admitted,  "pretty  dog-gone  Tar.  Handi- 
capper's  slipped  us  top  weight  sure  enough.  Go 
on  in.  Lady — here's  where  we  show  those  wise 
birds  In  Kentucky  what  a  cripple  can  do.'* 

The  mare  entered  obediently,  and  he  busied 
himself  removing  her  hood  and  traveling  wraps 
and  scurrying  around  after  water  and  feed. 

Old  Doc  Kelly  was  bald  and  fat.  He  came 
8 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

waddling  up  the  following  day  for  the  promised 
inspection. 

Through  half-closed  eyes  he  studied  the  little 
mare  as  she  limped  from  her  stall,  appraising  the 
exquisitely  molded  head  and  long  neck,  the  clear- 
cut  throat,  the  sharp  withers,  and  the  deep  chest 
that  afforded  unusual  room  for  heart  and  lungs. 

*'H'm,"  he  acknowledged,  "she's  got  the  Lord 
Valor  strain  all  right,  his  big  heart  and  her 
mother's  small  bones.  That's  the  trouble;  she'd 
carry  a  house  and  drop  in  her  tracks  before  she'd 
quit." 

His  fingers  probed  the  Injured  tendons  and  the 
swollen  ankles.  One  after  another  he  raised  the 
hoofs  and  studied  them.  Finally  he  straightened 
up  and  spat  reflectively. 

*'Breed  her,"  he  advised,  "she's  through!" 

Sandy  McKee's  lower  jaw  dropped  and  then 
set  stubbornly  with  a  click. 

"I  say  she  runs  again!" 

"All  right,"  rumbled  the  other,  "on  the  day 
she  does  I  lay  you  a  thousand  to  one,"  and  he 
waddled  indignantly  away. 

Not  by  the  slightest  expression  of  his  face  or 
voice  did  Sandy  McKee  betray  to  Lady  Courage- 
ous the  fear  that  was  in  his  heart.  He  knew  too 
much  about  horses  for  that. 

"Old  Doc  Kelly's  got  a  funny  way  about  him," 
9 


RIDERS  UP  I 


he  confided  to  the  mare  that  night,  "but  he  means 
all  right.  Next  week  he'll  be  hanging  over  the 
door  just  waiting  for  a  chance  to  help  out;  you 
see  if  he  don't!  Darned  if  you're  not  beginning 
to  perk  up  already.  That  liniment's  doing  the 
work,  old  girl — ^you're  looking  better  every 
minute." 

The  next  day  he  set  about  cutting  down  the 
contracted  hoofs  and  rectifying  the  horny  pad  in 
the  sole  of  the  right  forefoot.  ''No  more  shoes 
for  a  while,  old  girl,"  he  chirruped;  "going  to  let 
you  stand  barefoot  till  you  spread  them  hoofs. 
Just  going  to  make  you  a  mud-pack  for  that  bad 
frog — funniest  little  old  boot  you  ever  saw — 
just  you  wait  and  see !" 

Lady  Courageous  nickered  and  bent  warm 
nostrils  to  his  coat  pocket.  He  produced  the  cus- 
tomary lump  of  sugar  and  stroked  her  neck  and 
flanks  with  long  firm  pressure  of  his  wrinkled 
hands. 

In  the  evening  he  returned  bearing  a  leather 
arrangement  half  full  of  soft  blue  mud.  The 
mare  bent  an  inquisitive  muzzle  over  the  strange 
object,   and  then  wrinkled  her  nose  and  upper 

lip. 

"Now,  now,"  he  scolded,  "I'm  not  going  to  ask 
you  to  eat  it.     Here,  give  me  the  foot!"     The 

10 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

hoof  yielded  to  his  touch  and  over  it  he  fitted 
the  improvised  boot. 

*There,"  he  grunted,  ''that's  the  best  little 
old  mud  in  the  country — right  out  of  the  well  of 
Verona.     Mind  you  don't  knock  It  loose  !" 

That  night  Lady  Courageous  leaned  one  shoul- 
der against  the  side  of  the  stall  and  eased  herself 
to  the  straw  bed,  holding  her  right  foreleg  gin- 
gerly from  the  floor.  McKee  grinned  appre- 
ciatively. 

For  several  days  he  concentrated  on  the  task 
of  reducing  the  swelling  over  the  tendons,  apply- 
ing cool  dry  bandages  the  last  thing  at  night  and 
wet  cloths  for  the  day  treatment. 

He  looked  up  one  day  to  find  the  light  from 
the  doorway  blocked  by  the  figure  of  old  Doc 
Kelly. 

*'Why  don't  you  use  the  firing  Iron?"  demanded 
the  veterinarian.  ''Cross-fire  both  legs  and  then 
blister  them.    Bring  her  down  to  my  place." 

"Go  on  away,"  bristled  McKee;  "get  out  of 
my  light." 

The  rotund  figure  of  the  man  In  the  doorway 
swelled  to  the  proportions  of  a  young  ballon  tug- 
ging at  its  fastenings. 

"A  thousand  to  one,  you  old  fool!"  he  yelled, 
"a  thousand  says  you  haven't  even  got  a  selling- 

II 


RIDERS  UP! 


plater.  I'd  operate  on  your  head  if  It  wasn't 
made  o'  iron  I"  He  caromed  away,  snorting  the 
vengeance  of  heaven  on  all  Scotchmen. 

Nevertheless,  old  Doc  Kelly's  suggestion  bore 
fruit,  for  it  coincided  exactly  with  an  impression 
that  had  been  gathering  strength  in  McKee's  own 
mind. 

"Lady,"  he  whispered  to  the  mare,  "I'm  afraid 
we're  going  to  have  to  do  something  cruel  to  you, 
but  it  ain't  half  so  cruel  after  all  as  keeping  you 
from  the  barrier  when  you've  been  raised  for  noth- 
ing else.  Understand,  old  girl?  We're  going  to 
have  to  hurt  you ;  going  to  burn  the  skin  so  that  It 
folds  right  close  to  the  bone  and  holds  those  ten- 
dons in  place.  Then  we'll  put  on  your  lil'  ol'  red 
stockings  and  by  and  by — ^you'll  begin  running  nice 
and  easy,  and  then  faster  and  faster — and  first 
thing  you  know,  we'll  go  back  to  Latonla." 

Lady  Courageous  moved  restlessly. 

Early  In  the  morning  he  led  her  to  the  veterin- 
arian's quarters.  "Here  she  Is,"  he  capitulated, 
"but  if  you  make  a  botch  of  the  job,  I'll  kill  you." 

Doc  Kelly  made  no  botch.  His  father  and  his 
father's  father  had  been  students  of  horseflesh. 
For  all  of  them  It  was  both  a  gift  and  a  passion. 
Hours  afterward,  when  It  was  all  over  and  Sandy 
McKee  was  quivering  like  a  girl  who  has  seen  her 

12 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

mother's  ghost,  the  stout  man  turned  a  perspiring 
face  on  his  lifelong  friend. 

"I'm  still  laying  a  thousand  to  one,"  he  re- 
minded, "but  I  hope  I  lose  It.  She's  the  gamest 
little  mare  that  ever  drew  breath." 

"Don't  I  know  It!"  flamed  McKee. 

The  winter  passed  and  a  California  spring 
painted  golden  popples  on  the  emerald  hills. 
Sandy  McKee  clung  stubbornly  to  a  program  of 
bandages,  iodine,  warm  fomentations  and  a  daily 
parade  along  the  whitewashed  stalls — a  parade 
that  almost  Imperceptibly  extended  toward  the 
mile  track  that  stretched  alluringly  at  the  end  of 
the  avenues. 

And  Lady  Courageous,  hearing  never  a  harsh 
nor  loud  word,  and  conscious  only  of  tender  minis- 
trations and  a  growing  strength  in  the  bandaged 
legs,  responded  in  the  only  way  she  knew — with 
intelligent  obedience  to  her  trainer's  every  sug- 
gestion and  with  implicit  faith  that  all  was  well. 

Then  one  June  evening  after  a  day  of  gentle 
exercise  on  the  track  Itself,  followed  by  Doc 
Kelly's  careful  examination  of  the  dry,  clean 
scars,  Sandy  McKee  lifted  his  voice  In  an  ancient 
melody  of  the  British  barracks.  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  him  that  at  moments  of  greatest  hap- 
piness he  should  select  the  most  lugubrious  of 
themes. 

13 


RIDERS  UP! 


Wrap  me  up  i?i  ?ny  old  stable  jacket. 

And  with  footsteps  all   inournful  and  sloWj 

Convey  me  at  night  to  the  graveyard. 
And  bury  this  dujfer  below. 

There  were  innumerable  verses,  each  one  a 
little  more  melancholy  than  the  others,  and  he 
sang  them  all;  while  Lady  Courageous  flexed 
small  ears  forward  and  back — aware  from  his  tone 
that  her  master  was  unusually  content. 

From  then  on  the  work-outs  became  more  stren- 
uous, and  the  little  mare,  nothing  loath,  fought 
for  her  head  as  McKee,  standing  up  on  the  rail, 
hat  in  one  hand  and  watch  in  the  other,  waved  to 
the  boy  on  her  back  to  hold  her  in. 

Never  once  did  Sandy  McKee  neglect  to  praise 
her  extravagantly  after  every  effort.  In  the  eve- 
nings, by  the  light  of  a  coal-oil  lamp,  he  studied 
the  racing  forms. 

August  came.  Lady  Courageous  was  then  five 
years  old,  silken  coated,  trim  of  limb  and  In  her 
prime,  with  a  year's  rest  behind  her — a  year  spent 
in  an  equine  paradise. 

Once  again  her  owner  sought  out  old  Doc  Kelly 
and  laid  a  heavy  gold  watch  on  the  latter's  dusty 
desk. 

"The  fall  meeting  at  Latonia  opens  in  a  couple 
of  weeks,"  he  said.  "Me  and  111'  oP  red  stockings 
need  a  couple  of  hundred.    Can  you  spare  It?" 

14 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

The  veterinarian  picked  up  the  watch  and 
examined  it  carefully.  Then  he  laid  it  down, 
his  eyes  twinkling. 

''Am  I  a  pawnbroker?"  he  demanded.  "Not  a 
cent  do  I  lend  you  or  any  other  man,  but,"  he 
added,  reaching  for  a  check-book,  "I  pay  my  bets 
— promptly!" 

McKee  took  the  check  and  noted  that  it  was 
for  one  thousand  and  one  dollars. 

"Not  a  word,  you  old  fool,"  threatened  Doc 
Kelly,  "not  one  word — only  wire  me  when  she 
starts;  there  is  a  little  more  where  that  came  from 
and  it  is  a  wise  man  who  knows  when  to  hedge." 

The  trainer  walked  out  the  door  and  back  to 
Lady  Courageous.  He  made  a  trumpet  of  his 
hands  and  sounded  softly  the  call  to  post.  The 
mare  quivered  to  attention. 

"Traveling  clothes,  Lady,"  he  exulted,  "going 
back  to  old  Latonia — going  to  start  this  very 
night!" 

The  fall  meeting  had  been  on  for  two  weeks 
when  McKee  from  Latonia  sent  a  telegram  to  the 
New  York  office  of  Tod  Pennington.    It  read: 

Mile  in  forty-four  on  soft  track.     Come  at  once. 

Sandy. 

Pennington  showed  up  three  days  later. 
"Not  Lady  Courageous.    You  don't  mean — ?" 
15 


RIDERS  UP! 


McKee  beamed.  "Who  else?  To-morrow 
morning  at  five  o'clock  I'll  let  her  step  for  you." 

In  the  cool,  sharp  air  of  the  early  morning  Pen- 
nington met  McKee  at  the  stable  entrance  to  the 
track  just  as  Lady  Courageous  appeared  with  a 
stable-boy  on  her  back.  The  track  had  dried 
out. 

"Half  way  around  in  a  two-minute  jog,"  in- 
structed the  trainer,  "then  let  her  down  to  forty- 
eight." 

The  boy  nodded  and  cantered  away  while  the 
two  men  moved  to  the  rail,  watch  in  hand.  ^  In- 
tently they  studied  a  drab  blur  moving  swiftly 
around  to  the  half-mile  post  where  the  mare's 
stride  suddenly  lengthened.  McKee's  thumb 
pressed  the  stem  of  his  watch. 

A  little  later  when  the  mare  flashed  past  them 
her  rider's  elbows  were  crooked  back  and  his 
hands  drawn  well  toward  the  body.  McKee 
glanced  at  his  timepiece  and  closed  the  lid  with 
a  satisfied  click. 

"Under  double  wraps,"  he  observed  quietly, 
"and  a  hundred  and  twenty-five-pound  boy." 

Pennington's  eyes  glittered.  "Sandy,  it's  a 
miracle!  Two  or  three  races  and  she'll  be  in 
form." 

McKee  frowned.  "She's  ready  now,  and  she 
runs  but  one  race." 

i6 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

"The  Pennington  Handicap?" 

The  trainer  nodded.  "I've  entered  her  al- 
ready." 

Tod  Pennington  smiled  sadly.  "Sandy,  you're 
overplaying  your  hand.  There  are  three  horses 
here  that  can  beat  the  mare  at  her  best  and  they'll 
all  start." 

"Yes,"  McKee  agreed,  "they'll  start  and  a  lot 
of  others,  but  It  will  be  a  two-horse  race." 

"One  horse,"  corrected  Pennington,  "St.  Ivan 
— the  greatest  stretch  runner  In  America;  a  mile 
and  a  quarter  In  2 :02  1-5  seconds.  Who  can  beat 
him?" 

Sandy  McKee's  pale  eyes  warmed  to  fanatical 
fervor.  "My  HI'  ol'  red  stockings,"  he  exclaimed 
fiercely,  "that's  who'll  beat  him!  That's  who'll 
win  the  Pennington  Handicap.  They've  never 
beaten  the  Pennington  colors  in  that  race,  and 
they  never  will.    The  Handicap's  ours !" 

"She'll  be  twenty  to  one,"  mused  Pennington. 

"Better  than  that,"  McKee  told  him,  "she's 
down  for  one  hundred  and  twenty-one  pounds, 
the  old  weight,  and  she'll  run  in  bandages.  Lord 
Valor's  heart  and  True  Blue's  speed;  forty  to 
one,  and  a  two-horse  race!" 

"Gad!"  breathed  Pennington,  "I  never  thought 
I'd  be  back  at  the  old  game.  Ten  thousand  to 
the  winner,  and  forty  to  one!    By  gad!" 

17 


RIDERS  UP! 


'*The  old  place  Is  for  sale,"  McKee  interjected. 
**It  wouldn't  take  much  to  fit  it  up  as  a  stock  farm. 
There's  Lady  Courageous " 

"You  old  fox,"  laughed  Tod  Pennington, 
"you'd  like  to  see  me  keep  up  the  family  tradition, 
wouldn't  you?  Darned  If  you  haven't  got  me 
going,  too!  Saturday?  By  gad,  you're  on!  The 
old  wheel  of  fortune,  eh,  Sandy?  Well,  we'll  give 
it  one  more  spin!" 

The  Friday  evening  sporting  extras  and  the 
overnight  entry  sheets  were  singularly  alike  In 
their  tips  on  the  Pennington  Handicap.  St.  Ivan 
was  the  unanimous  selection,  despite  his  top  weight 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  pounds.  Friar 
John  was  given  the  second  choice,  and  the  Har- 
bridge  entry  third.  Concerning  Lady  Courageous 
the  comment  was  also  uniform : 

"Been  working  fast,  but  first  time  out  in  a  year. 
Legs  doubtful." 

But  late  that  night  a  watchman  patrolling  the 
darkened  stables  stopped  to  listen  to  a  voice  that 
sounded  a  melancholy  chant  from  a  distant  stall : 

Wrap  me  up  in  my  old  stable  jacket; 

Put  a  slab  at  my  head  and  my  toe, 
And  get  you  a  penknife  and  scratch  there: 

"Here  lies  a  poor  duffer  below.'* 

Far  into  the  night  the  dirge  continued. 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

The  morning  ushered  in  gray  clouds  scudding 
over  a  track  that  was  lightning  fast.  Tod  Pen- 
nington showed  up  early  in  the  afternoon  with 
four  trusted  agents.  He  sought  out  Sandy 
McKee. 

"Fm  heeled,  Sandy;  you  and  I  are  fifty-fifty  if 
the  little  mare  comes  home  in  front." 

The  trainer  shook  his  head.  "The  purse  is 
enough  for  me;  that  and  the  Lady.  You'll  need 
everything  you  can  make  to  get  the  farm  back 
and  rebuild  the  stable." 

"Fifty-fifty,"  insisted  Tod  Pennington;  "we're 
partners  no  matter  what  happens!" 

The  first  slates  on  the  mile  and  a  quarter  Pen- 
nington Handicap  with  a  field  of  eight  starters 
gave  prices  on  St.  Ivan  at  even  money,  with  Lady 
Courageous  chalked  up  at  twenty-five  to  one,  but 
almost  immediately  the  former  was  cut  down  to 
four  to  five  and  then  one  to  two  under  the  pressure 
of  public  choice.  When  the  odds  on  the  McKee 
entry  had  lengthened  to  forty  to  one,  Tod  Pen- 
nington and  his  quartet  of  commissioners,  at  a 
given  signal,  hit  the  betting  ring  from  five  points 
of  vantage. 

The  mare's  former  owner  was  recognized  at 
the  third  book  by  "Big  Jake"  Schaefer.  In 
answer  to  the  latter's  "H'lo,  Tod,  how  you  playin' 
'em?"  he  held  up  a  roll  of  bills : 

19 


RIDERS  UP! 


''Hundred  on  the  Lady  to  win." 

*'Four  thousand  to  a  hundred,  Lady  Courage- 
ous/^ droned  '*Big  Jake," 

The  man  at  his  elbow  rubbed  the  slate  clear 
and  the  bookmaker  leveled  his  glasses  at  the  other 
price-lists.  One  after  another  of  the  pencilers 
were  sponging  off  the  odds  on  Lady  Courageous. 
Schaefer  lowered  his  glasses  and  called  to  Pen- 
nington : 

''Who's  this  Sandy  McKee?" 

"My  father's  old  trainer,"  Tod  replied. 

The  bookmaker's  eyes  narrowed.  Over  at  his 
left,  one  book  was  still  offering  forty  to  one.  He 
beckoned  a  messenger  and  thrust  out  a  handful  of 
currency.  "Place  and  show  on  Lady  Courage- 
ous," he  whispered,  "over  at  Connelly's — quick!" 

The  messenger  and  Pennington  clawed  their 
way  through  the  crowd,  followed  by  a  train  of 
those  who  are  always  on  the  alert  for  "wise" 
money.  Billy  Connelly  saw  them  coming  and 
guessed  their  purpose.  He  shook  his  head  and 
wheeled  around  to  the  board.  Opposite  the  name 
of  Sandy  McKee's  mare  appeared  the  figures  "15- 
6-3^'' 

Pennington  held  up  a  hundred-dollar  bill. 
"Lady  Courageous  on  the  nose." 

"Fifteen  hundred  to  a  hundred,"  grunted  the 
bookmaker  and  rubbed  his  slate  again.     Penning- 

20 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

ton  turned.  Big  Jake's  messenger  was  fighting 
his  way  across  the  ring  to  where  the  New  Orleans 
book  was  stubbornly  holding  out  odds  of  thirty 
to  one.  In  the  swirling  mass  of  humanity  strug- 
gling at  the  base  of  the  New  Orleans  platform, 
Pennington  recognized  two  of  his  agents. 

The  book  held  out  against  the  onslaught  a 
minute  longer  and  then  declined  all  further  bets 
on  the  McKee  entry.  Meanwhile,  hundreds  of 
men  had  had  time  to  ask  one  another  what  it  was 
all  about;  to  look  up  Lady  Courageous's  last  per- 
formance; to  note  that  she  was  running  under 
the  old  Pennington  colors,  and  to  recall  the  turf 
tradition  regarding  a  Pennington  entry  in  the  Pen- 
nington Handicap.  The  rumor  spread  like  fire 
over  dead  grass  that  the  mare  was  primed  for  a 
killing,  and  in  three  minutes  the  rush  toward 
Lady  Courageous  became  a  stampede.  St.  Ivan 
receded  to  even  money. 

Tod  Pennington  made  his  last  bet  at  six  to  one 
and  then  hurried  to  the  paddock.  He  was  in  time 
to  hear  Sandy  McKee  give  his  last  instructions  to 
little  Travers,  a  sixteen-year-old  boy,  whom  the 
trainer  had  picked  out  after  one  glance  at  the  in- 
telligent gray  eyes  and  another  at  the  long  slender 
fingers. 

''Remember,"  McKee  said,  "no  whip  nor  spurs; 
when  the  time  comes,  talk  to  her.    Keep  close  to 

21 


RIDERS  UP! 


St.  Ivan  as  you  can  without  getting  pocketed;  he's 
all  you  have  to  beat." 

The  boy  nodded  and  McKee  gave  him  a  leg  up. 
Lady  Courageous  was  trembling  in  every  dainty 
limb,  her  eyes  twin  pools  of  liquid  flame.  She 
reared  up,  pawing  with  bandaged  forelegs,  and 
McKee  clung  to  the  bridle. 

"Easy,  you  lil'  oV  red  stockings,"  he  soothed. 
*'I  know  what  you're  waiting  for;  Sandy  knows 
—there!" 

"All  right!"  cried  some  one. 

McKee  released  his  hold  and  swept  a  final 
caress  over  the  mare's  saturated  coat.  One  after 
another  the  starters  in  the  Pennington  Handicap 
filed  out  of  the  paddock. 

A  bugle  sounded. 

"Come  on,"  Pennington  urged.  "I've  got  a 
good  place  saved  for  us  on  the  rail." 

The  field  of  thoroughbreds  paraded  past  the 
grandstand  and  then  turned  back  toward  the  bar- 
rier, St.  Ivan,  number  one  horse,  leading  the  way. 

One  glance  at  the  majestic  son  of  Petersboro, 
looking  every  inch  his  class,  and  another  at  Lady 
Cpurageous  now  strangely  docile,  cantering  past 
on  bandaged  legs,  and  the  «rowd  surged  back  into 
the  ring. 

Once  more  the  cry  of  "St.  Ivan  to  win !"  echoed 
through  the  enclosure.    Odds  of  one  to  four  were 

22 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

being  written  when  the  shout:  "They're  offl" 
coupled  with  the  shrill  clamor  of  an  electric  gong, 
sent  the  human  tide  sweeping  again  toward  rail 
and  grandstand. 

Tod  Pennington's  heart  sank  within  him,  but 
Sandy  McKee,  standing  erect  and  with  a  flush  on 
each  withered  cheek,  smiled  as  the  field  thundered 
past  the  grandstand. 

Southern  Belle,  the  Harbridge  entry,  carrying 
one  hundred  and  twelve  pounds,  had  the  early 
foot,  followed  closely  by  Captain  Adams  and  Star- 
light. The  others  were  bunched,  with  St.  Ivan 
lying  in  fifth  place  and  Lady  Courageous  still 
holding  to  her  position  on  the  outside. 

At  the  first  turn  the  field  shifted  kaleidoscopic- 
ally,  stringing  out  into  a  moving  blur  of  color. 
McKee's  eyes  failed  him. 

"The  Lady,"  he  questioned,  "where  is  she?" 

Pennington  stared  through  puckered  eyes.  "I 
can't  make  her  out.  Sixth,  I  think — no,  that's 
Starlight,  almost  the  same  colors — St.  Ivan  is 
seventh.    Ah,  there  he  goes  I" 

A  jubilant  roar  sounded  from  the  packed  stands. 
The  race  was  nearing  the  half-mile  post  and  St. 
Ivan  was  moving  up  on  the  outside.  As  easily 
as  a  child  gathering  up  its  toys,  the  great  black 
horse  picked  up  his  field.     One  after  another  he 

23 


RIDERS  UP! 


passed  until  he  took  command  with  two  lengths 
of  daylight  between  him  and  the  tiring  Southern 
Belle.  In  his  admiration  for  the  gallant  leader, 
Pennington  almost  forgot  his  own  interest  in  the 
race  and  the  little  old  man  standing  at  his  shoul- 
der. 

He  was  recalled  to  his  surroundings  by  Mc- 
Kee's  hoarse  voice:    "The  Lady,  where  is  she?" 

Again  Pennington  shook  his  head.  His  eyes 
could  not  make  out  the  familiar  cerise  and  green. 
He  turned  to  a  man  at  his  side  who  was  watch- 
ing the  race  through  field-glasses. 

"Can  you  make  out  Lady  Courageous?" 

"No,"  the  man  replied.  "I  plunged  on  her, 
too."  He  looked  hastily  at  his  program  and  again 
at  the  blur  of  color  now  nearing  the  far  turn. 

"By  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "there  are  only  seven 
horses  out  there  and  there  were  eight  starters. 
She  must  have  broken  down !" 

A  strangled  cry  came  from  Sandy  McKee. 
Three  pairs  of  eyes  swept  the  track  that  lay  back 
of  the  runners.     It  was  empty. 

The  man  with  the  glasses  leveled  them  again. 
Then  he  took  off  his  hat,  flung  it  down  and  jumped 
on  it. 

His  wild  yell  was  swallowed  in  a  roar  of  won- 
der that  swelled  from  the  blackened  grandstand. 
For  the  mighty  son  of  Peterboro,  swinging  around 

24 


LIL'  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

into  the  home-stretch,  disclosed  for  the  first  time 
that  he  was  not  alone.  Running  at  his  shoulder 
and  on  the  outside  where  she  had  been  from  the 
first  quarter  a  little  bay  mare  was  measuring  St. 
Ivan  stride  for  stride ! 

They  made  the  turn,  the  boy  on  St.  Ivan  hug- 
ging the  fence,  his  left  boot  held  clear  of  the  top 
rail.  The  mare  swung  a  trifle  wide  and  then 
closed  again  resolutely. 

Sandy  McKee  leaned  far  over  the  railing.  His 
eyes  caught  that  for  which  he  was  waiting, — the 
flash  of  red  bandages  in  the  sunlight. 

"There  she  comes!"  he  whooped.  "There's 
my  lir  ol'  red  stockings;  there  she  comes!" 

The  mare's  quick  recovery  of  the  lost  ground 
told  its  story  to  the  boy  on  the  black  horse.  From 
under  the  peak  of  his  cap  he  shot  one  panicky 
glance  at  Lady  Courageous,  and  then  went  to  the 
bat.  That  instant  of  quick  fear,  communicating 
Itself  to  the  sensitive  son  of  Petersboro,  put  the 
most  cruel  of  all  handicaps  on  a  gallant  horse.  He 
responded  desperately  as  his  rider's  whip  rose 
and  fell. 

"Now,"  breathed  Sandy  McKee,  "talk  to 
her!" 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  trainer's  prayer,  lost  in 
the  vocal  vortex,  little  Travers  swung  forward  on 
the  shoulders  of  Lady  Courageous.     His  hands 

25 


RIDERS  UP! 


moved  out  on  the  reins  to  within  a  few  inches  of 
the  bit.  With  face  bowed  to  the  mare's  neck,  his 
small  arms  gave  with  the  bob  of  her  head. 

Down  they  came,  St.  Ivan  on  the  rail;  Lady 
Courageous  at  his  right!  A  shrill  hysterical 
scream  from  a  woman  leaning  over  the  grand- 
stand banister  rose  above  the  deeper  clamor: 

^^Pennington!    The  Pennington  finishT' 

The  cry  awoke  memories  of  turf  tradition.  The 
throbbing  roar  of  "St.  Ivan!"  was  blasted  by  the 
exultant  yells  of  the  long-shot  fraternity:  "Lord 
Valor!"     "True  Blue!"  "Pennington!" 

For  the  bay  mare,  true  to  her  colors  and  her 
ancestry,  disdaining  the  rail  and  asking  only  for 
room — plenty  of  room — was  coming  down  the 
center  of  the  track  just  as  her  sire  and  her  mother 
had  done  in  the  days  of  their  glory. 

Half-way  down  the  stretch  St.  Ivan,  aware  that 
the  greatest  test  of  his  career  had  come,  gave  to 
his  rider  all  that  was  in  him,  but  Lady  Courageous 
was  racing  for  Sandy  McKee !  By  heart-breaking 
inches  she  nosed  ahead  at  the  paddock,  and  at  the 
wire  it  was  Lady  Courageous  by  a  neck  and  going 
away! 

Petrified  by  the  miracle  of  it  all.  Tod  Penning- 
ton clung  to  the  railing,  eyes  mechanically  set  on 
an  iron  framework  across  the  track  into  which 
white  numbers  were  slowly  dropping.  First  a  "2," 

26 


O^ 


LIU  OL'  RED  STOCKINGS 

then  a  "o,"  then  another  "2."  He  waited  breath- 
less, but  there  were  no  more  numbers.  A  great 
cry  rose  from  the  stands. 

"S-Sandy!"  stuttered  Pennington.  "Sandy,  a 
track  record!     A  cripple  and  a  track  record!" 

But  Sandy  McKee  was  no  longer  at  his  side.  A 
little  old  man  was  crouching  In  the  winner's  circle 
in  front  of  the  judges'  stand;  crouching  there  with 
anxious  eyes  fastened  upon  a  bay  mare  cantering 
back  to  him  on  bandaged  legs  that  still  moved 
clean  and  strong. 

Little  Travers  held  up  his  hand;  caught  the 
judges'  smiling  nod,  and  slid  from  his  mount.  The 
stands  rocked,  and  the  band  played.  Gray-haired 
men  clapped  Sandy  McKee  on  the  back  and 
shouted  his  praises.  But  he  saw  only  a  little  bay 
mare  nudging  forward  to  be  petted;  he  heard 
only  the  shrill  whimper  of  feminine  ecstasy  that 
was  blown  through  the  blood-red  nostrils  of  Lady 
Courageous. 


•^ 


II.     SHOOTING  STAR 

/ 

A  star  that  bursts  the  vault  of  night 
And  heats  the  heavens  in  its  flights- 
Squanders  its  wealth  in  one  brave  show 
Till  naught  remains  save  afterglow. 

WHEN  Lady  Courageous,  running  In  ban- 
dages, beat  St.  Ivan  a  neck  on  the  post 
in  the  Pennington  Handicap,  thereby  re- 
paying her  debt  to  Sandy  McKee,  her  owner  took 
the  little  bay  mare  back  to  California,  and  there, 
with  Tod  Pennington,  set  about  rebuilding  the 
once  famous  Pennington  stable. 

Operating  as  partners,  they  bought  back  Bon- 
nie Brae,  the  family  stock-farm  In  the  LIvermore 
Valley,  and  undertook  to  resurface  the  circular 
mile  track  and  modernize  the  training  quarters 
from  which  In  the  old  days  Lord  Valor,  True 
Blue  and  other  celebrated  Pennington  horses  had 
gone  forth  to  fame  and  glory. 

There  was  one  point  upon  which  Sandy  McKee 
insisted  with  Scotch  stubbornness. 

"All  that  I  asked  of  her,  the  Lady  did.  Never 
again  will  I  send  her  to  the  post." 

To  which  Tod  made  reply,  one  arm  around  the 
28 


SHOOTING  STAR 


trainer's  shoulder  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  old  Colonel  Pennington  himself:  "She's  your 
mare,  Sandy,  and  you're  a  sentimental  old  idiot; 
but  I  love  you." 

The  "sentimental  old  Idiot,"  sniffed  disparag- 
ingly and  promptly  consigned  the  last  three  words 
to  the  treasure-chest  of  his  memory,  along  with 
such  visible  associations  as  old  Colonel  Penning- 
ton's watch,  presented  when  Valor  hung  up  the 
mlle-and-quarter  mark  at  Latonia,  and  a  pair  of 
faded  red  bandages  with  which  Sandy  McKee  had 
brought  about  the  return  of  Lady  Courageous. 

While  Tod  Pennington  supervised  the  work  of 
reconstruction,  McKee  took  Lady  Courageous 
north  to  Sonoma  County,  the  Valley  of  the  Moon, 
and  there  she  was  mated  to  Cloud  o'  War,  the 
great  Montgomery  stallion  for  whom  three 
foreign  governments  had  bid  unsuccessfully. 

Bruce  Montgomery,  millionaire  sportsman,  laid 
down  but  one  condition. 

'Tou  know  my  rule,  Sandy;  the  get  stays  in 
America,  I  want  this  country  to  retain  the  peer 
of  the  thoroughbreds." 

*That  suits  me,"  said  Sandy.  ^There's  noth- 
ing too  good  for  the  Pennington  colors.  All  the 
Lady  lacks  is  b)one  and  weight,  and  your  horse 
has  iDoth.    The  foal  will  be  short  above  and  long 

29 


RIDERS  UP! 


below,  and  if  he  has  the  Valor  heart,  you  can  look 
for  a  world-beater." 

Far  into  the  spring  the  work  of  rehabilitating 
Bonnie  Brae  went  on;  and  in  June,  leaving  a  string 
of  yearlings  in  the  new  stables,  McKee  and  Pen- 
nington collected  a  small  but  likely  string  of  sea- 
soned horses  and  campaigned  with  fair  success  in 
the  East  and  South,  winding  up  at  Latonia,  where 
Firelight,  a  six-year-old  gelding  bought  from  the 
Kearney  stable,  romped  home  in  the  Pennington 
Handicap  leading  a  respectable  field  by  two 
lengths. 

In  winter  they  returned,  and  Sandy  McKee 
found  Lady  Courageous  waiting  patiently  in  her 
stall,  yearning  perhaps  for  the  once  familiar 
bugle-call,  but  with  the  high  lights  in  her  eyes 
softened  by  the  fact  that  she  was  heavy  with  foal. 
By  the  sense  of  smell,  by  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
by  the  familiar  movements  of  his  body,  the  mare 
recognized  him,  and  nickered  a  greeting. 

Though  many  trainers  never  talk  to  their 
horses,  on  the  theory  that  the  human  voice  is  un- 
pleasant to  equine  ears,  Sandy  McKee  had  his  own 
ideas  on  the  subject.  The  pitch  of  his  quiet  voice 
was  unusually  low,  and  when  addressing  a  hot- 
blooded  horse,  it  was  always  accompanied  by  the 
slow,  firm  stroke  of  wrinkled  hands.    Other  train- 

30 


SHOOTING  STAR 


ers  had  to  admit  that  McKee  had  a  way  with  a 
horse  that  was  past  explaining. 

Sandy  assumed  personal  charge  of  Lady  Cour- 
ageous. He  saw  to  her  food  and  bedding  and 
ministered  to  her  comfort  the  last  thing  at  night. 
It  was  on  one  such  occasion,  when  he  was  leading 
the  blanketed  mare  to  water  rather  late  in  a  Janu- 
ary evening,  that  there  occurred  an  event  destined 
to  have  a  marked  effect  on  the  fortune  of  the  Bon- 
nie Brae  farm. 

The  dark  velvet  of  the  western  sky  was  sud- 
denly rent  by  a  swift-rushing  meteor  that  blazed 
a  golden  trail  overhead,  lighting  the  countryside. 
McKee  stopped  short;  and  the  mare,  flinging  up 
her  head,  haunched  back  and  crashed  against  the 
water-trough.  Her  terror  increased.  McKee 
clung  to  the  halter  and  was  pulled  from  his  feet 
as  Lady  Courageous  wheeled  sharply  and  once 
more  collided  with  the  wooden  stand.  The  meteor 
faded  behind  the  purple  hills  to  the  east,  and  the 
mare  quivered  to  a  standstill.  McKee  examined 
her  and  clucked  reprovingly. 

"Wasn't  nothing  but  a  shooting-star,"  he  com- 
plained. "What  do  you  want  to  bang  yourself 
around  like  that  for?  Just  for  that,  you  go  back 
to  bed." 

But  when  she  was  again  safe  in  her  stall.  Lady 
Courageous,  instead  of  nosing  at  her  food,  moved 

31 


RIDERS  UP! 


restlessly  from  side  to  side,  wrinkled  her  upper 
lip  in  a  whimper  of  distress  and  refused  to  be 
quieted.  McKee  studied  her  anxiously,  and  then, 
instead  of  going  to  his  own  quarters,  he  procured 
a  collapsible  cot  and  pair  of  blankets  and  pre- 
pared to  spend  the  night  outside  the  stall. 

It  was  one  of  McKee's  many  peculiarities  that 
on  the  eve  of  a  big  race,  or  an  event  such  as  he 
now  anticipated,  he  should  elect  to  find  relief  in 
song. 

Intermittently  through  the  night  there  rose 
from  the  hushed  stable  an  ancient  rollicking  mel- 
ody of  the  Queen's  Hussars : 

And  whenever  you  re  jolly  well  licked,  dear  lad. 
And  the  enemy's  closing  in. 
Remember  the  day  when,  one  in  five. 
We  rode  to  the  Russian  guns  alive — 
Rode  to  the  guns,  and  before  we  died. 
Spiked  the  beggars  and  turned  the  tide! 

Toward  morning  the  chant  came  to  an  abrupt 
close,  and  a  lantern  light  moved  In  and  out  of  the 
stall.  A  groom  awoke  Tod  Pennington  at  day- 
light. 

"Mr.  McKee  wants  you  to  come  to  the  stables 
at  once,"  he  said. 

Pennington  dressed  hurriedly  and  made  his 
way  down  the  avenue  of  maples.     And  there,  in 

32 


SHOOTING  STAR 


the  darkened  stall,  he  found  Sandy  McKee  bend- 
ing over  a  seal-brown  foal  that  squirmed  feebly 
on  the  straw  under  its  mother's  caresses. 

*'Colt,"  whispered  Sandy,  "and  he's  come  ahead 
of  time.  But  didn't  I  tell  you  he'd  be  *short  above 
and  long  below' ;  look  at  those  legs  I" 

Pennington's  eyes  rounded.  "Glory!"  he  ejacu- 
lated. "But  you'll  have  to  feed  him  with  a 
bottle." 

McKee  nodded.  "I'm  having  some  flannels 
heated.    We'd  better  go  out  now." 

On  the  tanbark  corridor  Pennington  halted 
**What  shall  we  name  him?" 

The  trainer  mused  a  moment  and  then  he  re- 
lated the  incident  of  the  night  before.  "I'm  not 
much  on  hunches,"  he  admitted,  "but  this  one  is 
pretty  strong,  and  it  makes  a  nice  name:  sup- 
pose we  call  him  Shooting  Star?" 

And  though  Tod  Pennington,  with  what  almost 
amounted  to  a  premonition,  warned  Sandy  that  a 
shooting  star  comes  from  nowhere  and  ends  in 
the  same  place,  that  was  the  name  finally  selected 
for  the  son  of  Lady  Courageous.  .  . 

Almost  before  they  knew  it,  the  colt  flesh  dis- 
appeared and  Shooting  Star  was  a  yearling,  an 
impetuous,  long-legged  clown  of  the  stable  whose 
chief  characteristic  was  a  tendency  to  jump  out 
of  his  skin  at  the  least  provocation.     Two  days 

33 


RIDERS  UP! 


after  being  backed  he  was  following  other  thor- 
oughbreds around  the  track,  and  in  a  week  or  so 
he  was  fairly  way-wise. 

Meanwhile  the  Pennington  stables  expanded. 
More  seasoned  horses  were  added  to  the  string, 
together  with  a  few  youngsters,  including  Ma- 
chine Gun,  a  handsome  bay  colt  by  Cloud  o'  War 
out  of  the  Kentucky  mare  Maribelle  Lee. 

Trained  especially  for  the  event.  Firelight  re- 
peated her  success  in  the  Pennington  Handicap, 
but  she  had  to  be  ridden  out  hard  to  last  a  nose 
in  front  of  Captain  Davis.  More  and  more  horse- 
men were  making  it  an  object  of  honor  to  break 
the  Pennington  grasp  on  the  Latonia  classic. 

"The  game  is  coming  back,"  Pennington  com- 
mented. "Next  year  some  of  those  two-year-olds 
will  be  hard  to  beat." 

McKee  nodded.  'Tm  glad  to  see  it  come ;  we'll 
break  a  few  watches  ourselves." 

The  younger  man  smiled  indulgently.  "What 
with?"  he  inquired. 

"Shooting  Star." 

Pennington's  grin  broadened.  "The  colt  will 
break  plenty  of  barriers  and  a  few  necks,  but  the 
only  way  he'll  ever  smash  a  watch  is  by  jumping  on 
it.    I'm  banking  on  his  half-brother." 

Sandy  McKee  puffed  reflectively  at  his  pipe  a 
moment.     "AH  other  things  being  equal,"  he  de- 

34 


SHOOTING  STAR 


liberated,  "I  pick  the  colt  for  what  I  see  through 
the  window  of  his  eye  when  he's  excited.  The 
high  lights  for  courage  and  stamina,  and  the  flame 
of  the  ruby  for — "    He  paused. 

^Torwhat?" 

McKee  shrugged.  "I  don't  really  know,"  he 
admitted.  "Imagination,  perhaps,  or  desire.  It's 
what  makes  a  thoroughbred  run  out  a  race  on  a 
broken  leg.  Lady  Courageous  had  It;  so  did  Lord 
Valor  and  True  Blue.  It's  almost  a  Pennington 
characteristic." 

"What  about  Machine  Gun?" 

"It's  there,"  admitted  the  trainer,  "but  not  to 
the  same  extent  as  In  Shooting  Star.  The  Star 
has  almost  too  much  for  my  liking — too  much  fire, 
and  I  don't  understand  It.  I  never  felt  that  way 
before  about  a  horse." 

The  long,  pleasant  days  slipped  past,  and  as 
Shooting  Star  approached  racing  condition,  his 
temperamental  peculiarities  became  more  pro- 
nounced. Race-horses  and  athletes  are  alike  in 
that  respect;  the  closer  they  approach  to  being 
on  edge,  the  more  difficult  It  Is  to  handle  them. 

The  Pennington  horses  moved  to  New  Orleans, 
and  on  New  Year's  Day,  when  the  son  of  Lady 
Courageous,  by  virtue  of  racing  rules,  became  a 
two-year-old,  he  sidled  to  the  post  for  his  maiden 

.35 


RIDERS  UP! 


scramble  In  a  three-furlong  dash.  A  plunging, 
sweating  tangle  of  nerves,  he  broke  the  barrier 
twice,  kicked  one  horse  out  of  the  running,  and 
when  the  webbing  finally  shot  up,  won  by  six 
lengths  in  thirty-five  seconds  flat. 

The  debut  amazed  Tod  Pennington  and  trans- 
ported Sandy  McKee  to  the  seventh  heaven. 
Shooting  Star  was  a  big  colt,  full  of  run  and  fire. 
He  won  his  next  two  starts,  this  time  at  three  and 
a  half  furlongs;  and  veteran  horsemen  hailed  him 
as  the  king  of  the  Southern  two-year-olds.  The 
fame  of  Cloud  o'  War  as  a  sire,  and  Lady  Cour- 
ageous as  a  broodmare,  spread  over  the  racing 
world: 

But  just  before  the  meeting  closed,  McKee  en- 
tered the  colt  in  a  four-and-one-half  furlong  race 
on  a  fast  track,  and  he  finished  absolutely  last 
after  spread-eagling  his  field  up  to  the  final  fur- 
long. 

At  Lexington  they  tried  him  again  with  the 
same  result,  and  then  Sandy  McKee  realized  that 
he  had  a  problem  on  his  hands. 

*'Morning  Glory,"  averred  Pennington.  "The 
colt  lacks  bottom." 

The  trainer  scowled.  "I  say  he's  got  bottom 
and  speed;  it's  nervousness  and  ambition.  I  feared 
it  all  along.  He  runs  half  the.  race  in  the  pad- 
dock and  the  other  half  over  the  first  three  fur- 

36 


SHOOTING  STAR 


longs.  He's  got  the  Cloud  o'  War  jawbone,  and 
the  boy  can't  rate  him." 

McKee's  analysis  proved  true.  Shooting  Star 
lived  up  to  his  name.  The  two-year-old  never 
looked  through  a  bridle  that  could  lead  him  from 
the  barrier  or  over  the  first  quarter-mile;  but  in 
that  mad  dash  he  burned  himself  to  nothing.  He 
worked  out  as  fast  as  he  raced,  and  no  boy  could 
make  him  take  a  jog.  With  the  flash  of  the  bar- 
rier, Shooting  Star  was  out  in  front,  giving  every- 
thing that  was  in  him  at  the  wrong  time. 

McKee  was  too  shrewd  a  trainer  not  to  recog- 
nize that  this  tendency  to  be  a  front-runner  was 
so  much  a  part  of  the  colt's  nature  that  it  was  un- 
wise to  attempt  to  curb  it.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  make  the  best  of  it.  He  left  all  his 
sympathy  and  affection  with  Shooting  Star  and 
turned  his  mind  and  talents  to  Machine  Gun. 

Here  again  the  cerise  and  green  of  the  Pen- 
nington stables  were  sported  by  a  sensation.  The 
shapely  son  of  Maribelle  Lee  made  his  debut  in 
the  Junior  Stakes,  and  so  closely  had  he  been 
tabbed  by  the  dockers  and  the  railbirds  that  he 
went  to  the  post  a  favorite,  and  justified  the  hopes 
of  the  stable  by  winning  handily  from  a  classy  field 
over  five  furlongs.  Machine  Gun  was  the  reverse 
of  his  half-brother,  an  intelligent,  well-behaved 
colt  who  permitted  himself  to  be  rated  nicely,  and 

37 


RIDERS  UP! 


showed  a  tendency  to  come  from  behind.  He 
finished  his  two-year-old  season  unbeaten. 

Tod  Pennington  was  inclined  to  be  jubilant,  but 
he  took  care  to  temper  his  enthusiasm  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Sandy  McKee. 

"Mind  you,"  warned  Sandy,  "Shooting  Star  is 
the  better  of  the  two — only  he  doesn't  know  how 
to  distribute  his  speed.  Some  day  he  will  learn, 
and  then  you  will  see  a  race-horse  worthy  of  the 
Pennington  colors." 

Pennington  threw  an  affectionate  arm  around 
McKee's  drooping  shoulders.  "All  things  are 
possible  on  a  race  -track,"  he  consoled. 

But  Shooting  Star  showed  no  indication  of  any 
better  understanding  of  his  duties.  McKee  ac- 
cepted the  situation  as  gracefully  as  his  Scotch 
obstinacy  permitted,  and  when  the  next  season 
rolled  around,  coupled  the  half-brothers  as  run- 
ning companions  and  sent  them  after  three-year- 
old  honors  together.  Almost  from  the  start  they 
proved  an  invincible  combination.  Shooting  Star 
killing  off  all  the  early  competition  in  the  race,  and 
Machine  Gun  unlimbering  in  the  stretch. 

The  faster  the  pace,  the  better  for  the  courage- 
ous stake-horse  who  comes  from  behind.  Shoot- 
ting  Star  led  the  field  over  the  first  quarter  in  .22 
and  the  half-mile  post  by  .46  1-5  ;  and  by  that  time 
most  of  the  contenders  were  dizzy.  Many  a  jockey 

38 


SHOOTING  STAR 


who  tried  to  lay  off  that  terrific  pace  found  himself 
nevertheless  influenced  by  the  sight  of  that  flying 
figure  far  out  in  front.  Experience  told  him  that 
Shooting  Star  would  come  back  to  the  field,  but 
anxiety  and  caution  prompted  him  to  keep  within 
driving  distance  in  case  the  unexpected  should 
happen  and  the  bay  colt  forget  to  quit. 

But  up  in  the  press  boxes  where  the  form-charts 
were  compiled,  and  in  the  few  pool-rooms  which 
still  managed  to  secure  direct  wire  service,  the 
official  call  was  always  the  same  when  the  Pen- 
nington pair  were  entered  in  a  mile  or  better. 

'^They're  off — Shooting  Star  in  the  lead.  .  .  . 
At  the  quarter,  Shooting  Star  by  three  lengths. 
...  At  the  half,  Shooting  Star  by  ten  lengths. 
...  At  the  three-quarters.  Shooting  Star  by  a 
nose.  .  .  .  Into  the  stretch — "  Here  the  call 
varied  for  the  first  two  horses  and  then  resumed 
its  familiar:  "Machine  Gun  third.  .  .  .  Here's 
the  winner :  Machine  Gun  by  two  lengths." 

Shooting  Star  never  attained  the  honor  of  a  call 
after  the  three-quarter  pole  was  past.  Gradually 
he  began  to  understand  that  such  a  thing  was  not 
expected  of  him.  Little  Travers,  who  usually  had 
the  leg  up,  made  no  attempt  to  press  his  mount 
when  the  field  began  to  overhaul  them,  for  both 
horse  and  man  were  aware  that  they  were  due  to 
be  passed  at  the  right  time  by  O'Neill  on  Machine 

39 


RIDERS  UP! 


Gun;  and  as  Terry  sported  the  cerise  and  green, 
what  did  it  matter? 

The  son  of  Lady  Courageous  finished  in  the 
ruck  and  then  was  led  away  shamelessly  to  the 
stables,  where  he  ran  at  his  groom  open-mouthed, 
kicked  over  water-buckets,  scattered  his  feed  and 
behaved  with  characteristic  clownishness. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  turfmen  began  to 
discuss  the  possibilities  of  a  match-race  between 
Machine  Gun  and  the  crack  Canadian  three-year- 
old  Trafalgar.  The  latter  had  made  racing  his- 
tory by  winning  the  Canadian  Derby  in  his  first 
start,  and  like  Machine  Gun,  he  had  never  been 
beaten.  He  came  from  a  long  line  of  English 
Derby  winners,  and  he  was  regarded  so  generally 
as  invincible  over  a  mile  or  longer  that  few  horse- 
men had  the  temerity  to  risk  the  reputation  of 
their  stables  against  him. 

Tod  Pennington  received  an  invitation  to  bring 
his  stable  across  the  border.  He  laid  the  matter 
before  Sandy  McKee. 

"If  they  want  the  race,  let  them  come  after  it," 
advised  the  trainer  cannily.  "Ten  thousand  to 
the  winner,  a  mile  and  a  quarter,  and  old  Latonia 
in  October." 

"The  Pennington  Handicap?" 

"Why  not?  If  they  think  Trafalgar  can  take 
it  away  from  us,  that's  their  chance." 

40 


SHOOTING  STAR 


"Right  as  usual,"  Tod  acknowledged.  "There^s 
nothing  like  meeting  a  man  on  your  own 
ground." 

All  through  the  summer  months,  while  Shoot- 
ing Star  and  Machine  Gun  continued  to  campaign 
successfully  on  the  Western  tracks,  and  Trafalgar 
hung  up  mark  after  mark  at  the  Montreal,  Wind- 
sor, and  New  York  tracks,  conjecture  as  to  what 
would  happen  in  the  event  the  two  horses  ever 
met  was  the  source  of  argument  wherever  horse- 
men gathered. 

It  was  more  patriotism  than  judgment  that  In- 
fluenced American  turf  followers  to  support  the 
chances  of  the  Pennington  colors,  for  the  Can- 
adian king,  according  to  the  speed-sheet,  figured 
to  have  the  edge  on  the  American  champion.  Still, 
It  was  so  small  a  margin  that  track  condition,  rela- 
tive horsemanship  and  any  of  the  factors  that 
come  under  the  general  heading  of  racing  luck 
might  well  determine  the  result. 

From  the  time  that  It  was  first  suggested.  It  was 
foreordained  that  public  opinion  would  sooner 
or  later  force  the  match.  Major  Ludlow,  who 
owned  Trafalgar,  was  both  a  millionaire  and  a 
good  sportsman.  Late  In  the  summer  he  an- 
nounced his  Intention  of  shipping  his  stable  to 
Kentucky  for  the  fall  meeting,  and  this  was  ac- 
cepted to  mean  that  the  monarch  of  the  Canadian 

41 


RIDERS  UP! 


turf  would  measure  strides  with  Machine  Gun 
in  the  Pennington  Handicap. 

On  the  day  Trafalgar  entered  his  car  at  Mon- 
treal, Sandy  McKee  canceled  all  engagements  for 
both  Shooting  Star  and  Machine  Gun,  and  con- 
centrated all  his  skill  and  energy  on  the  task  of 
fitting  the  half-brothers  for  their  greatest  effort. 

Almost  immediately  the  race  assumed  interna- 
tional significance.  There  were  rumors  of  a  pool 
formed  by  British  interests  to  back  the  Ludlow 
colors,  not  alone  in  this  country  but  abroad.  Bruce 
Montgomery,  owner  of  Cloud  o'  War,  tele- 
graphed from  California  that  he  would  support 
the  Pennington  stable  dollar  for  dollar  with  the 
blue  sky  the  limit.  Tod  Pennington  announced 
that  the  stable  would  not  depart  from  its  practice 
of  bracketing  Machine  Gun  and  Shooting  Star, 
which  satisfied  the  dopesters  that  the  great  son  of 
Maribelle  Lee  would  have  a  pace  set  for  him  that 
was  to  his  liking,  and  Trafalgar  would  have  his 
customary  early  lead  disputed  by  the  famous  Pen- 
nington ^'Morning  Glory." 

The  Canadian  horse  was  led  to  his  quarters  at 
Latonia  two  weeks  before  the  Handicap  was 
scheduled  to  be  run.  He  took  nicely  to  the  climate 
and  the  track,  and  in  the  early  morning  hours 
worked  out  in  a  way  that  left  no  room  for  doubt 
as  to  his  condition. 

42 


SHOOTING  STAR 


As  for  Sandy  McKee,  there  were  few  men  his 
equal  in  putting  a  race-horse  on  edge.  Machine 
Gun,  freshened  up  after  his  rest,  breezed  over 
the  route  under  double  wraps  carrying  a  hundred- 
and-twenty-six  pound  boy  without  apparent  ef- 
fort. On  the  other  hand.  Shooting  Star  was  never 
more  fractious  or  excitable.  He  came  out  in  the 
mornings  with  two  stable-boys  hanging  to  him,  and 
when  they  turned  him  loose,  he  burned  up  the 
track  until  an  elevated  tail  at  the  three-quarters 
post  indicated  that  the  skyrocket  was  responding 
to  the  natural  law  of  physics. 

Into  Kentucky  from  every  section  of  the  coun- 
try streamed  the  lovers  of  fast  horses.  From  Tia 
Juana,  New  Orleans,  Montreal,  and  wherever  the 
hoof-beat  of  the  thoroughbred  finds  welcome,  vet- 
eran turfmen  came  individually  and  in  parties.  On 
the  day  before  the  race,  a  newspaper  estimate 
placed  the  probable  attendance  at  fifty  thousand. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Tod  Pennington,  de- 
bonair, easy-natured  child  of  fortune,  experienced 
an  overpowering  sense  of  responsibility.  In  the 
game  for  the  pure  love  of  it,  and  because  Sandy 
McKee  by  the  rehabilitation  of  Lady  Courageous 
had  recouped  the  family  fortune,  he  realized  for 
the  first  time  the  vast  sum  of  money  that  would 
change  hands  on  the  morrow.  Nor  was  it  money 
alone;  American  prestige  itself  was  at  stake — that 

43 


RIDERS  UP! 


and  the  honor  of  his  father,  old  Colonel  Penning- 
ton, who  had  been  in  his  day  the  foremost  figure 
of  the  Kentucky  turf.  Somehow,  it  was  the 
memory  of  the  elder  Pennington,  long  since  gone 
to  his  rest,  that  quickened  the  heart-beat  of  the 
remaining  member  of  the  family. 

Late  that  night  Tod  felt  an  unconquerable  de- 
sire to  receive  some  final  assurance  of  confidence 
from  Sandy  McKee,  for  the  trainer  had  been 
singularly  glum  and  unconfiding  during  the  last 
week  of  preparation.  Pennington  traversed  the 
hotel  corridor  and  stopped  outside  McKee's  door. 
Just  as  he  raised  his  hand  to  knock,  he  caught 
a  familiar  refrain  that  came  to  a  close  even  as  he 
listened : 

And  so  by  the  light  of  the  Khyber  stars 

They  knighted  the  cook  of  the  Queen  s  Hussars. 

Pennington  smiled,  straightened  his  shoulders 
and,  returning  to  his  room,  went  peacefully  to  bed. 

He  was  eating  an  early  breakfast  in  the  hotel 
dining-room  when  a  stable-boy  hurried  in  with  a 
note.  The  boy's  manner  warned  him  that  some- 
thing had  happened,  but  he  was  unprepared  for 
the  message  that  leaped  up  at  him  in  McKee's 
painful  scrawl : 

Don't  say  anything  but  come  to  the  track  at  once.  Ma- 
chine Gun  has  gone  lame.  Sandy. 

44 


SHOOTING  STAR 


As  fast  as  his  car  could  take  him,  Pennington 
reached  the  track,  and  with  the  first  sight  of 
McKee's  face,  his  worst  fears  were  realized.  Even 
in  that  swift  moment  of  consternation  he  had  time 
to  feel  sorry  for  the  faded  figure  standing  there 
quietly  at  the  half-door  of  the  stall. 

"Tod,  the  colt's  out  of  it.  I  had  him  shod  yes- 
terday, and  they  must  have  pricked  his  hoof.'* 

"You're  sure!" 

For  answer,  McKee  signaled  to  a  groom,  and 
Machine  Gun  was  led  from  his  stall.  The  limp 
was  perceptible  even  as  he  walked. 

Pennington  met  the  blow  gamely.  He  pulled 
out  his  watch  and  studied  the  hands. 

"There's  only  one  thing  that  we  can  do,"  he 
said  briskly.  "Notify  the  stewards  at  once,  and 
we'll  scratch  the  stable." 

"Why  the  stable?"  McKee  put  the  question 
quietly  enough,  but  his  face  reddened  and  there 
was  a  stubborn  glint  in  his  eyes. 

Pennington  stared  and  then  spoke  up  im- 
patiently. 

"See  here,  Sandy — I'm  not  going  to  have  the 
colors  disgraced  in  the  Pennington  Handicap;  nor 
am  I  going  to  throw  away  a  million  dollars  in 
good  American  money.  If  Shooting  Star  goes  to 
the  post,  the  bets  on  the  stable  stand." 

"And  If  he  doesn't  go,"   cut  In  the  trainer, 
45 


RIDERS  UP! 


^'you'll  break  the  Pennington  tradition;  and  what's 
more,  they'll  accuse  us  of  deliberately  crippling 
the  horse  to  dodge  the  race.  Shooting  Star  goes 
to  the  post." 

"No." 

Mechanically  the  trainer  brushed  off  his  clothes 
and  pulled  a  battered  hat  more  firmly  over  his 
gray  hair.  "Well,  good-by.  Tod,"  he  said,  and 
turned  away. 

The  hot  blood  raced  into  young  Pennington's 
face  and  then  retreated.  He  strode  after  Sandy 
McKee  and  whirled  the  latter  around. 

"Not  that,  Sandy — I  owe  you  too  much.  Start 
the  horse  if  you  want  to,  but  I  can't  see  the  point 
unless  you've  got  something  up  your  sleeve." 

The  trainer  made  reply  dully:  "I  haven't  any- 
thing. We  can  put  O'Neil  up  and  run  Shooting 
Star  in  blinkers.  He's  the  greatest  quarter-horse 
in  America." 

"And  this  is  a  mile-and-a-quarter  race,"  said 
Pennington  grimly.     "O,  my  holy  aunt !" 

McKee's  face  quivered.  He  was  close  to  break- 
ing down. 

"If  I  had  nothing  but  a  selling  plater,  I'd  start 
him  in  the  colors  to-day  and  go  down  rooting  for 
him.  All  I  want  is  to  see  Shooting  Star  out  there 
leading  Trafalgar;  and  then  I'll  feel  that  I've 
done  all  I  can." 

46 


SHOOTING  STAR 


"Gad!"  exploded  Pennington.  *'Gad — ^you're 
a  thoroughbred,  Sandy;  you  make  me  ashamed  of 
myself  I  Damned  If  I  don't  play  Shooting  Star 
on  the  nose.     Shake!" 

They  gripped  hands,  and  while  McKee  turned 
back  to  the  stable,  Tod  Pennington  went  away 
to  face  the  music.  By  ten  o'clock  every  newspaper 
in  the  country  had  the  news,  and  the  morning  rac- 
ing extras  were  on  the  streets  with  scare  head- 
lines. Track  officials  issued  a  formal  statement 
to  the  effect  that  the  Pennington  colt  was  scratched 
on  legitimate  grounds.  This  statement  was  coup- 
led with  Tod  Pennington's  assurance  that  as  soon 
as  the  colt  recovered,  he  would  enter  him  against 
Trafalgar  for  any  side-wager  the  owner  of  the 
Canadian  horse  cared  to  make.  In  the  meantime 
the  Pennington  colors  would  be  defended  in  the 
Handicap  by  Shooting  Star. 

This  last  statement  evoked  Ironical  comment. 
Never  was  there  a  more  complete  upset  before  a 
race,  never  a  keener  disappointment  to  the  Ameri- 
can turf.  There  was  only  one  consolation:  Tra- 
falgar would  be  probably  sent  against  time  to 
demonstrate  that  even  with  Machine  Gun  In  the 
race,  he  would  have  been  the  victor.  That  thought, 
coupled  with  the  fact  that  there  is  always  a  large 
element  of  the  racing  public  that  never  plays  a 
favorite  under  any  conditions,  sent  the  gathered 

47 


RIDERS  UP! 


thousands  streaming  Into  Latonia  shortly  after 
the  noon  hour. 

As  though  to  add  to  the  general  gloom,  the 
threatening  skies  dissolved  with  the  first  race  into 
a  steady  rain,  and  when  the  starting  board  for  the 
Pennington  Handicap  was  displayed  opposite  the 
sea  of  umbrellas,  the  track  itself  was  coated  with 
three  inches  of  slop. 

Tod  Pennington  was  waiting  in  the  paddock 
when  McKee  and  a  groom  came  in  leading  Shoot- 
ing Star,  hooded  and  blanketed.  There  were  nine 
other  starters,  the  largest  field  In  the  history  of 
the  handicap.  With  Machine  Gun  out  of  it,  and 
second  and  third  money  an  open  question,  at  least 
three  entries  who  would  have  been  scratched 
otherwise  were  left  on  the  board.  When  the  thor- 
oughbreds were  In  their  stalls,  the  center  of  at- 
traction became  the  handsome  Canadian  cham- 
pion, the  satin-black  Trafalgar. 

"How's  the  betting  going?"  inquired  McKee. 

^'Trafalgar  all  the  way,"  Pennington  made 
answer.  "Everybody's  hedging.  He's  one  to 
twenty  now,  and  it's  growing  worse  every  minute. 
They're  backing  Steel  King  for  the  place." 

"Shooting  Star?" 

"Write  your  own  ticket.  He  carries  a  fortune 
In  the  advance  betting,  but  I'm  the  only  fool  who's 
backing  him  now." 

48 


SHOOTING  STAR 


McKee  grunted.  "There's  two  of  us,  then." 
He  displayed  a  green  ticket.  "I  never  sent  a  horse 
to  the  post  yet  that  didn't  have  my  support." 

He  turned  to  Terry  O'Nell,  ninety-five  pounds 
of  tempered  steel,  standing  quietly  in  the  green 
blouse  and  cerise  bar  of  the  Pennington  stable. 

"Do  your  best,  lad;  that's  all  any  of  us  can  do. 
If  you  can  steady  him  without  choking,  he  may 
last  longer  than  usual." 

The  boy  nodded.    "How  about  the  bat?" 

McKee  frowned.  "I  don't  like  it,  but  use  your 
own  judgment.  There's  no  sense  in  punishing  a 
horse  when  he's  not  a  quitter.  Shooting  Star  will 
race  his  heart  out,  and  he  couldn't  do  more  than 
that  if  you  whipped  him  all  the  way." 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  entrance  to  the 
paddock,  and  a  man  with  a  badge  ordered  the 
jockeys  on  their  mounts.  One  by  one  they  filed 
into  the  runway  leading  to  the  track.  The  crowd 
scrambled  back  to  the  ring  and  the  stands.  In 
the  distance  a  bugle  sounded. 

McKee  and  Pennington  shouldered  their  way 
to  a  spot  just  below  the  press-box  where  they  could 
hear  the  voice  of  the  official  caller,  and  could  with 
the  aid  of  field-glasses  obtain  a  fair  view  of  the 
start. 

The  field  cantered  past  the  stands  and  then 
came   splattering   past,   Trafalgar   on   the   rail, 

49 


RIDERS  UP! 


Shooting  Star  shaking  his  head  at  the  unaccus- 
tomed hood  and  moving  sidewise  in  the  Number 
Three  position.  The  others  moved  past,  sedately 
or  plunging,  as  their  temperaments  dictated. 

Over  the  multitude  settled  the  expectant  hush 
which  tries  the  nerves  of  the  most  experienced 
horseman.  It  was  a  big  field,  and  there  was  too 
much  at  stake  for  the  starter  to  take  any  chances. 
The  minutes  dragged  by,  and  there  were  two  false 
starts. 

"Shooting  Star,"  muttered  Pennington,  "he's 
raising  hell.    There  he  goes  again." 

A  bay  bolt  burst  through  the  webbing,  plunged 
to  a  stop  and  went  sidling  back.  They  could  see 
the  starter  waving  one  arm  vigorously. 

"The  longer  they  stay  there  the  better,"  Mc- 
Kee  whispered.  "The  black  is  carrying  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven  pounds,  and  weVe  got  a 
thirty-pound  advantage.  Terry's  trying  to  beat  the 
barrier,  too!    Who's  that  doing  all  the  kicking?" 

"The  Hobart  mare — Shooting  Star  crowded 
her.  Terry  can't  get  away  with  that  stuff;  he'd 
better  look  out ;  he  can't  get  through — Ah !" 

"They're  off!" 

The  cry  broke  from  a  thousand  throats  and 
rumbled  off  into  a  throbbing  roar.  Down  the 
track  a  rush  of  color  flared  suddenly.  The  voice 
of  the  official  caller  came  to  them  jerkily: 

50 


SHOOTING  STAR 


"Trafalgar,  Sea  Queen,  Argument,  Rock  Le- 
gion, Jackanapes,  St.  George,  Steel  King,  Shoot- 
ing Star " 

Tod  Pennington  lowered  his  glasses  and  laid 
a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  McKee. 

"It's  all  In  the  game,  old  pal,"  he  comforted. 
"The  colt  wheeled  the  wrong  way,  and  that's  no 
fault  of  yours.     Here  they  come." 

The  field  swished  past  the  stand,  Trafalgar  on 
the  rail  and  setting  his  own  pace  two  lengths  to 
the  good.  As  they  made  the  first  turn,  the  boy  on 
the  Canadian  horse  looked  back  over  one  shoul- 
der. 

McKee  broke  his  silence,  glasses  fixed  on  the 
moving  blur : 

"He's  looking  for  Shooting  Star,  and  there 
goes  Terry  on  the  outside — no,  he's  cut  off." 

At  the  half-mile  post,  as  though  to  settle  be- 
yond all  doubt,  the  fate  of  the  Pennington  entry, 
the  horses  in  the  second  division  shifted  again, 
this  time  pocketing  Shooting  Star  on  the  rail  in 
a  position  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  Rock 
Legion  in  third  place,  held  to  the  rail  in  front 
of  O'Nell  with  Sea  Queen  running  at  his  side  and 
two  horses  following  close  behind. 

Once  more  the  drone  of  the  caller  came  to 
their  ears: 

51 


RIDERS  UP! 


"Trafalgar  by  three  lengths,  Sea  Queen  a  neck, 
Shooting  Star  a  length " 

"It's  a  procession,"  mourned  Pennington, 
"Trafalgar  won't  even  have  to  extend  himself." 

He  turned  again  to  McKee,  and  then  as  quickly- 
turned  away.  Down  the  trainer's  withered  cheeks 
from  under  the  leveled  field-glasses  great  tears 
were  rolling.  For  the  first  time  In  the  history  of 
the  Kentucky  turf  the  cerise  and  green  had  failed 
its  supporters  in  the  Pennington  Handicap, — 
tradition  had  been  broken. 

Pennington  listened  stupidly  to  the  voice  above 
him: 

"Into  the  stretch — Trafalgar  four.  Steel 
King's  a  head,  Rock  Legion  a  neck,  Sea  Queen  a 
length.  Shooting  Star  two " 

A  big  man  in  a  raincoat,  standing  next  to  Pen- 
nington, interrupted  with  a  warning: 

"Look  out,  boy,  you'll  bump — Look  out — 
What  did  I  tell  youf 

A  quick  grasp  of  horror  rose  from  the  stands. 
Back  of  the  onrushing  Trafalgar  two  horses  went 
to  their  knees,  throwing  their  riders  into  the  gray 
sea.  Just  in  time  the  pack  split,  three  horses 
veering  to  the  right  and  the  others  taking  the  rail. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  gap  closed  again, 
and  then  the  multitude  got  a  still  greater  thrill. 

Cut  off,  pocketed,  spattered  with  mud,  held 
52 


SHOOTING  STAR 


back  by  force  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  but  with 
all  his  marvelous  burst  of  speed  Intact  and  only 
ninety-seven  pounds  on  his  back,  out  from  the 
ranks  shot  the  clown  of  the  Pennington  stables 
— the  greatest  quarter-horse  in  America ! 

''Shooting  Starr 

It  was  Sandy  McKee  who  shrieked  it  first, 
hurled  it  ecstatically  Into  the  weeping  heavens. 
A  thousand  voices  caught  it  up,  ten  thousand, 
twenty!  One  glance  down  the  stretch,  and  all 
Kentucky  knew  that  the  unbelievable  thing  was 
possible — the  Pennington  miracle  was  unfolding. 

The  boy  on  Trafalgar,  startled  from  his  secur- 
ity by  the  tumult,  glanced  back  and  saw  an  equine 
meteor  blazing  at  his  heels.  Two  sprays  of  mud 
shpoting  up  on  either  side  heightened  the  impres- 
sion of  a  comet.  Spasmodically  he  lurched  for- 
ward, ding-dong,  arm  and  heel,  and  the  black 
horse  responded,  but  not  quickly  enough.  At 
the  paddock  the  meteor  flashed  up  neck  and  neck 
with  the  black.  Then  hammer  and  tongs  on  even 
terms  they  fought  for  the  wire. 

To  every  jockey  his  day;  to  every  horse  his 
race !  Never  In  all  his  life  had  Shooting  Star 
failed  to  lead  his  field;  never  had  he  raced  on  a 
track  of  such  welcome  softness;  never  had  he 
felt  a  boy  on  his  back  who  hurled  him  irresistibly 

d3 


RIDERS  UP! 


forward,  who  telegraphed  with  reins  and  knees: 
"Win — win — win !" 

Into  the  long  legs  and  the  big  heart  spurted  the 
strength  of  his  sire  and  the  gallant  blood  of  Lady 
Courageous.  Twenty  feet  from  the  finish,  boy 
and  horse  merged  their  souls  in  one  last  effort, 
and  by  the  length  of  a  mud-caked  nose  it  was 
Shooting  Star  that  went  under  the  wire  first. 

'Tennington — Pennington — Pennington !"  The 
throbbing  cry  blasted  the  heavens.  The  white 
numbers  dropped  into  place  at  the  judges'  stand; 
the  field  came  blowing  back;  and  still  the  golden 
chant  of  triumphant  Kentucky  pealed  forth. 
Bare-headed  in  the  rain  that  beat  upon  the  win- 
ner's circle,  a  young  man  faced  the  blackened, 
roaring  stands  with  one  arm  around  the  shoulders 
of  his  racing  partner,  and  by  impassioned  gestures 
centered  the  tribute  upon  Sandy  McKee. 


III.     STAR  OF  ISRAEL 

'Round  she  goes,  and  'round  she  goes. 

And  where  she  stops  nobody  knows 

But  the  Lord — and  He  don't  give  a  whoop! 

THE  little  marble,  succumbing  to  gravity, 
rattled  against  the  nickel-plated  studs 
and  dropped  into  a  hole. 

^^Eighteen  by  a  mere  chance,"  proclaimed  the 
man  in  the  pink  shirt, — ''eighteen,  red  and  even." 

He  swept  in  the  losers'  chips  with  his  left  hand 
and  deftly  duplicated  the  winning  stacks  with 
his  right.    His  placid  voice  resumed  its  discourse. 

"If  you  don't  speculate,  you  never  accumulate. 
Come  on,  boys,  double-ought  to  thirty-six,  what 
could  be  fairer?  'Tis  a  game  that  should  be 
taught  in  every  public  school." 

The  winners  laughed,  and  a  man  with  a  green 
eye  shade  and  cotton  cuff-protectors,  coming  on 
for  the  night  shift,  relieved  "Baltimore"  Ryan 
at  the  roulette  table.  The  latter  moved  ponder- 
ously to  the  open  door  and  the  street  in  the  fad- 
ing sunlight  where  once  "Aunt  Jane"  fashioned 
such    excellent    tortillas,    that    grateful    patrons 

55 


RIDERS  UP! 


named  the  place  in  her  honor,  and  it  is  Tia  Juana 
to  this  day. 

Beyond  the  expanse  of  atrocious  mud,  a  green 
and  white  race  track  bordered  the  international 
line.  Closer  stood  a  row  of  'dobe  buildings  on 
a  street  that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  con- 
structed overnight  by  the  property  man.  And 
in  the  immediate  foreground,  a  very  small  stable 
boy  waited  patiently  for  "Baltimore'^  Ryan  to 
turn  eyes  in  his  direction.  Finally,  the  boy's  stare 
accomplished  its  object. 

"Please,  Mister  Ryan,"  said  the  youngster, 
"can  I  have  a  job?" 

The  gentleman  from  Baltimore  regarded  the 
seeker  after  employment  quizzically. 

"What's  the  name?" 

"Kirschberg,  sir, — Isidore   Kirschberg." 

"Help!"  said  Mr.  Ryan.  "How  old  are  you, 
Izzy?" 

"Thirteen  on  this  side  of  the  line,  sir — sixteen 
on  the  American  tracks.  I  come  out  with  the 
Frawley  stable.  The  boss  said  you  bought  the 
string.  I  ain't  eat  since  yesterday.  Mister, — I 
got  to  have  a  job." 

"H'm.     Where  you  from?" 

"New  York." 

Ryan  whistled  sympathetically.  "Three  thou- 
sand miles  from  home  and  the  milk  ain't  dry  on 

56 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


your  nose  yet.  Ain't  you  the  kid  that  got  left  on 
Jessica  Wednesday?" 

The  boy  flushed.  "Yes,  sir;  the  assistant  starter 
laid  the  whip  on  us  when  we  were  In  our  place 
and  standing  still.  The  mare  backed  up  and 
tried  to  reach  him  with  her  heels  just  as  the  web- 
bing sprung.  That  left  us  out  of  it,  and  'Father 
Fred'  pulled  my  boots  off.  It  was  my  first  race, 
and  I'd  'a'  won  it,  Mister;  I  can  ride  if  they  lay  off 
me." 

"Baltimore"  Ryan  chuckled.  "Maybe  you 
can,"  he  admitted,  "but  you'd  better  change  your 
name  and  iron  out  that  nose,  son.  A  jockey  room 
is  no  synagogue." 

"Izzy"  KIrschberg's  eyes  darkened  and  he  re- 
treated slowly. 

"It  ain't  no  crime  to  be  a  Jew,  Mister,"  he 
said,  "and  I  ain't  ashamed  of  my  name,  and 
what's  more — nobody's  going  to  make  me  change 
it.  I  don't  need  to  eat,  and  I  can  stand  a  lot  of 
beating  yet — but  one  of  these  days  I'll  be  boot- 
ing 'em  under  the  wire.  I'll  show  'em  what  a 
sheeny  can  do.  Just  you  keep  your  old  job, 
Mister!" 

He  pulled  his  cap  down  over  his  eyes  and 
turned  away.  "Baltimore"  Ryan  rolled  solemnly 
after  him.  "Izzy"  Kirschberg,  noting  that  he  was 
being  followed,  broke  into  a  run;  so  did  the  occu- 

57 


RIDERS  UP! 


pant  of  the  pink  shirt.  At  the  end  of  the  block, 
the  fugitive  was  overhauled,  and  the  gambler  put 
a  paternal  arm  around  the  youngster's  shoulders. 

"Who's  beating  you?"  he  puffed. 

"Everyb-b-body,"  sobbed  Izzy.  He  reached 
down  and  bared  a  small  leg  that  bore  from  ankle 
to  knee  the  unmistakable  imprints  of  a  whip. 

The  man  from  Baltimore  selected  his  choicest 
oath. 

"Hell  and  seven  hundred  dollars!"  he  growled, 
"who  did  that?" 

"The  head  jockey,"  confessed  Izzy,  "he  was 
trying  to  make  me  do  a  Yid  dance  for  the  other 
kids.  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  knew  how,  Mister — 
let  me  go." 

With  his  disengaged  hand,  Ryan  produced  a 
five  dollar  bill  and  put  it  in  the  boy's  pocket.  "Go 
feed  your  face,"  he  instructed,  "and  then  tell 
"Curly"  Jones  I  said  to  give  you  a  job.  I  just 
bought  the  Frawley  string  on  spec'  and  maybe 
I  won't  keep  it  very  long,  but  if  anybody  tries  to 
pull  any  rough  stuff  on  you, — come  and  tell  me." 

"Thanks,"  said  Izzy,  "but  I  ain't  no  snitch. 
Mister.  Just  you  forget  what  I  said  about  that 
head  jock:  I  was  hungry."  He  hesitated,  digging 
at  the  ground  with  the  toe  of  one  shoe. 

"Well?" 

"There's  a  chestnut  three-year-old,  Baltasar — 

58 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


you'd  better  hang  on  to  that  horse,  Mister.  He 
ain't  right  now,  but  he's  a  stake  horse." 

*'That  hound!"  expostulated  Ryan,  "why  if  he 
ever  opens  his  mouth  he'll  bark;  in  a  six-horse 
race  he'd  finish  seventh!" 

The  boy  grinned  appreciatively  but  shook  his 
head.  *'"Look  him  up,  Mister,"  he  advised,  "I'm 
working  for  you  now,  and  I'm  telling  you  some- 
thing.   Look  him  up  and  you  won't  sell  him." 

"All  right,  Izzy,"  chuckled  Ryan,  "you  go  look 
into  a  plate  of  soup  and  don't  get  your  ears  wet." 

The  lad  departed  in  the  direction  of  the  track 
restaurant  and  his  new  employer  stood  for  sev- 
eral minutes  contemplating  the  retreating  figure 
as  if  it  represented  a  specimen  of  the  genus  homo 
with  which  he  was  unfamiliar.  Finally  the  big 
bookmaker  climbed  into  his  car  and  headed  for 
San  Diego.  Several  times  en  route  he  permit- 
ted his  feelings  to  express  themselves  in  an  ex- 
plosive grunt. 

That  night  he  ran  across  the  "Information 
Kid"  in  a  biUiard  room.  The  "Information  Kid" 
knew  everything  and  did  nothing,  and  was  only 
known  to  have  committed  one  blunder  in  his  life. 
That  was  when  he  became  convinced  that  be- 
cause of  the  juxtaposition  of  the  planets  the  world 
was  coming  to  an  end.  He  paid  up  all  his  debts 
and  was  around  two  days  later  proclaiming  loudly 

59 


RIDERS  UP! 


that  he  had  been  ''gyped."     Ryan  pried  him  loose 
from  a  pool  table. 

"Kid,"  he  demanded,  "who  was  the  original 
heavyweight  champion  of  England — wasn't  it 
Mendelssohn?" 

"It  was  not,"  said  the  Kid.  "Maybe  you're 
thinking  of  Mendoza, — Daniel  Mendoza,  born 
in  London,  1764,  held  the  title  from  '92  to  '95. 
His  parents  came  from  Spain.    He  was  a  Jew — " 

"That's  the  bird,"  interrupted  Ryan — I've  been 
trying  to  call  his  name  for  three  hours.  How  do 
you  account  for  him  being  a  champion  and  a  Jew. 
I  always  thought  a  Yid  was  yellow." 

The  "Information  Kid"  chalked  his  cue 
thoughtfully.  "Don't  bet  your  money  that  way," 
he  admonished.  "It  was  a  Jew  who  died  game 
when  He  had  the  best  excuse  for  quitting  in  the 
history  of  the  world." 

"Well,  go  ahead.    I'm  listening." 

"This  was  about  two  thousand  years  ago,"  ex- 
plained the  Kid,  "and  if  memory  serves  me  right, 
He  came  back  even  after  they  crucified  Him,  and 
I  think  the  record  still  stands." 

*'You  win,"  Ryan  admitted.  "Now  give  me 
the  dope  on  Baltasar.'* 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  the  "Informa- 
tion Kid"  made  answer: 

60 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


"Baltasar  was  one  of  the  three  wise  guys  from 
the  East.  The  others  were  Melchoir  and  Caspar. 
They  had  sense  enough  to  recognize  a  real  star 
when  they  saw  one,  and  they  crossed  the  desert 
on  camels  with  the  first  Christmas  gifts.  They — " 

**Forget  it,"  hissed  Ryan,  "I  want  to  know 
about  that  chestnut  three-year-old  In  the  Frawley 
stable.  I  bought  him  this  morning.  What  do 
I  care  about  camels  and  stars?" 

"Well,  call  your  shot!"  countered  the  Kid. 
"You  sprung  a  Jew  on  me  first,  and  we  were  talk- 
ing about  ancient  history.  How  should  I  know 
that  you've  switched  to  goats?" 

The  other  waved  one  hand  lightly.  "Don't 
stall,"  he  rebuked.  "Do  you  know  anything 
about  Baltasar,  or  must  I  go  somewhere  else?" 

"I  know  all  about  everything,"  snapped  the 
Kid,  and  straightway  undertook  to  prove  It. 

"Baltasar  is  a  three-year-old  chestnut  by  Rock 
Gold  out  of  Maid  Miriam.  He  has  four  white 
legs  and  a  blazed  face,  stands  16.3,  weighs  1000 
pounds,  girths  68  Inches,  and  has  a  lot  of  daylight 
under  his  belly.  He  won  the  Wide-Awake  Stakes 
on  his  first  start,  leading  the  Belmont  colors  by 
two  lengths,  and  he  come  in  first  in  the  Golden 
Rod  Handicap  with  the  best  babies  in  America 
chasing  him  all  the  way.  Now  he's  ready  for  the 
glue  works.     Anything  else?" 

61 


RIDERS  UP  I 


''Baltimore"  Ryan  was  a  little  dazed.  "Where 
do  you  get  it  all?"  he  inquired. 

"Professional  secret,"  yawned  the  Kid,  "may- 
be 'Father  Fred'  is  my  brother-in-law;  maybe  I 
just  dreamed  it." 

"H'm,"  commented  the  bookmaker,  "one  thing 
more :  what  should  I  do  with  my  link  of  sausage  ?" 

The  "Information  Kid"  chalked  his  cue  for  a 
difficult  bank  shot,  and  having  missed  it,  returned 
to  the  subject  at  hand. 

"I'd  sell  him  for  fifty  cents  If  he  was  mine," 
he  confided,  "but  if  I  had  your  wad,  I'd  farm  him 
out  for  a  year  and  let  him  spread,  and  then  I'd 
look  him  over  again." 

"Thanks,"  said  Ryan,  "that's  just  what  I 
wanted  to  know.  See  you  again  some  time."  He 
turned  and  headed  for  the  exit.  Half  way,  he 
heard  a  very  loud  and  reproachful  ^^me-ow,''  and 
looked  back. 

The  "Information  Kid"  was  peering  under  the 
pool  table  and  addressing  in  compassionate  tones 
an  imaginary  cat.  "Poor  little  Kitty,"  he  called, 
"did  the  big  man  forget  to  feed  you  after  you 
showed  him  all  your  tricks?  He's  as  tight  as  a 
rubber  overshoe,  isn't  he,  Kitty?" 

The  gentleman  from  Baltimore  walked  back 
and  slipped  a  five  dollar  bill  in  the  hand  of  the 
cat  fancier. 

62 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


"Excuse  me,  Kid,"  he  apologized,  'Tm  getting 
absent-minded  lately;  buy  the  Kitty  some  cigars." 

Ryan  would  have  made  a  good  reporter.  When 
he  started  after  a  thing  he  knew  just  where  to 
go  and  he  worked  fast.  Before  another  hour 
had  passed  he  had  located  "Pedigree  Pete"  Smith, 
known  also  as  "the  little  Professor"  who  was  a 
bug  on  genealogical  trees  and  structure  charts. 
Pete  could  start  in  the  middle  and  trace  in  either 
direction  the  lines  of  Herod,  Matchem  and 
Eclipse,  which  form  the  Thoroughbred  Trinity. 

The  authority  on  equine  pedigrees  launched  into 
an  enthusiastic  lecture  which  was  abruptly  ter- 
minated at  the  end  of  an  hour  by  the  discovery 
that  "Baltimore"  Ryan  was  fast  asleep.  Mr. 
Smith  was  vexed  and  said  so. 

"That's  all  right,"  soothed  the  man  from  Balti- 
more. "If  it  took  you  that  long  to  tell  about  him, 
I  guess  his  family  came  out  of  the  Ark  all  right. 
I'm  much  obliged." 

Ryan  was  mindful  of  the  courtesies  this  time. 
He  rewarded  the  Professor  with  ten  dollars,  ap- 
preciating the  fact  that  a  specialist  was  entitled 
to  more  consideration  than  a  practitioner  of  the 
"Information  Kid's"  type. 

Three  days  later  the  bookmaker  sent  for  little 
"Izzy"  Kirschberg. 

"Ever  been  to  Pleasanton,  Kid?" 

63 


RIDERS  UP! 


*'No,  sir." 

^'Well,  I'm  shipping  you  and  Baltasar  there 
to-night.  Here's  a  letter  to  old  Doc'  Kelly  who'll 
be  your  boss  for  a  while.  You're  to  behave,  un- 
derstand? Also,  you  go  to  school.  Can  you 
write?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  do  it,  and  send  me  your  report  cards. 
What  do  you  scale  now?" 

"About  ninety  pounds,  sir." 

"H'm,  let  me  see  your  hands." 

Ryan  studied  the  small  well-shaped  fingers  and 
then  looked  down  at  the  feet.  They,  too,  were 
small. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "I  guess  that's  all,  Kid; 
one  of  these  days  I  may  try  you  out  in  the  Balti- 
more colors, — you  and  the  chestnut." 

"You  mean  that.  Mister?"  asked  the  young- 
ster. ,  Into  the  small  face  crept  the  vision  of  an 
idealist;  the  dark  eyes  glowed  with  the  hidden 
fervor  that  is  peculiar  to  the  people  of  the  dis- 
persion. He  took  a  step  forward  and  looked 
up  earnestly  at  "Baltimore"  Ryan. 

"Mister,"  said  Izzy  Kirschberg,  "youVe  the 
first  guy  that's  ever  treated  me  white.  You're 
taking  my  tip  on  Baltasar,  and  you're  staking 
me  to  school  and  to  a  job,  and  don't  you  think 
I'll  ever   forget  it.     I'm  going  to  make   good 

64 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


for  you,  Mister — I'm  going  to  .  .  ,  make  .  .  . 
goodJ' 

Before  Ryan  could  divine  his  intention,  "Izzy'* 
impulsively  seized  his  employer's  hand,  carried 
it  to  his  lips,  and  scurried  for  the  door. 

"What  the  hell — "  said  the  bookmaker.  But 
the  boy  was  gone. 

By  the  end  of  the  week,  "Baltimore"  Ryan 
had  forgotten  completely  both  Baltasar  and  Izzy 
Kirschberg. 

That  was  a  wonderful  year  for  little  Izzy 
Kirschberg  and  the  chestnut  son  of  the  mighty 
Rock  Gold;  a  year  of  quiet  conditioning  in  the 
Arcadian  air  of  the  Livermore  Valley  which  com- 
bines the  glory  of  California  with  the  charm  of 
Old  Kentuck',  and  lies  but  an  hour's  journey  from 
the  Bay  of  San  Francisco. 

They  found  there  a  race  track  never  mentioned 
in  the  official  form  charts  but  known  by  horsemen 
from  Canada  to  Mexico,  and  from  which  many 
a  royal  son  and  daughter  of  the  turf  have  gone 
forth  after  the  winter  months  ready  to  fight  it 
out  for  the  Throne  of  the  Thoroughbred. 

They  found  there  a  medley  of  the  equine  world 
such  as  neither  boy  nor  horse  had  ever  seen; 
cold-blooded  horses  from  the  Grand  Circuit;  hot- 
blooded  talent  from  the  realm  of  the  runners; 


RIDERS  UP 


high-aceing  trotters  with  elbow  boots  and  their 
cousins — the  daisy-cutters ;  aged  campaigners  and 
aristocratic  weanlings  that  had  yet  to  feel  the 
pressure  of  the  racing  saddle  which,  fully  rigged, 
weighs  but  a  pound  and  a  half. 

But,  best  of  all,  little  Izzy  Kirschberg,  a  wind- 
blown weed  from  the  New  York  ghetto,  encoun- 
tered at  Pleasanton  old  Doc'  Kelly,  who  was  fat 
and  bald  and  very  wise;  and  the  veterinarian  in- 
troduced him  to  gray-headed  Sandy  McKee  who 
had  served  his  time  in  a  British  regiment  that 
drank  to  "God,  the  King,  and  our  horses!" 

Since  the  memory  of  man  runneth  not  to  the 
contrary,  old  Doc'  Kelly  and  Sandy  McKee  had 
been  pals.  Wherefore,  since  Izzy  Kirschberg  had 
reported  to  one  of  them,  the  other  likewise  joined 
in  the  education  of  ''Baltimore"  Ryan's  protege. 
During  the  long  summer  evenings,  when  the  griz- 
zled chums  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  veterinarian's 
office,  arguing  on  the  eternal  problems  of  equine 
nature  and  characteristics,  Izzy  sat  on  the  lower 
step,  silent  and  absorbed. 

Gradually,  to  the  boy's  instinct  and  passion 
for  horses,  was  added  much  information  that  was 
destined  to  prove  useful.  He  learned  that  a  horse 
is  neither  a  c6ward,  nor  a  bully,  nor  a  fool,  as 
many  authorities  proclaim,  but  a  high-strung,  in- 
telligent animal  that  is  prone  to  be  swayed  by 

66 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


memory.  When  a  horse  runs  back  into  a  burn- 
ing stable,  it  is  not  because  he  is  fascinated  by 
the  flames,  but  he  remembers  that  his  stall  has 
always  been  a  place  of  security  and  comfort,  and 
thither  he  turns  in  the  hour  of  danger. 

The  boy  discovered  that,  with  the  Arabs,  a 
white  horse  stood  for  religious  purity;  a  bay  for 
speed  and  bottom,  hence  war  and  victory;  a  yel- 
low or  gray  for  Death;  and  that  concerning  the 
tempery  chestnut — the  ancients  were  accustomed 
to  say:  "Be  slow  to  buy,  my  son,  and  still  slower 
to  sell  if  he  has  proved  a  good  one." 

He  learned  that  the  "monkey-on-the-stick" 
crouch  developed  by  Tod  Sloan  owed  its  success 
to  the  fact  that  it  removed  the  pressure  of  the 
rider's  legs  from  the  breathing  apparatus  of 
the  horse  and  put  the  pressure  on  the  ridge 
of  the  withers  instead  of  the  shoulders. 

Similarly,  the  lad  listened  to  long  dissertations 
on  that  most  marvelous  of  all  equine  formations, 
the  foot  of  the  thoroughbred,  which  beats  a  thou- 
sand-pound tattoo  on  a  fast  track  with  such  force 
that  the  hoof  of  a  draft  horse  would  be  shat- 
tered at  the  first  impact.  He  heard  Sandy  Mc- 
Kee  explain  how  human  magnetism,  transmitted 
over  the  reins  from  the  hands  of  a  rider  to  the 
sensitive  mouth  of  his  mount,  answers  the  ques- 
tion of  why  a  horse  responds  to  one  man  and 

67 


RIDERS  UP! 


not  another,  and  accounts  for  the  fact  that  a 
thoroughbred  Is  seldom  gamer  than  the  boy  who 
is  on  him. 

These  and  many  other  things  impressed  them- 
selves very  deeply  on  Izzy  KIrschberg's  mind. 
During  school  hours  he  learned  what  other  chil- 
dren of  his  age  are  supposed  to  know.  But  in 
the  early  mornings  and  late  in  the  afternoon,  he 
exercised  Baltasar  on  the  mile  track,  keeping  his 
little  body  low  so  that  it  offered  no  resistance  to 
the  wind  and  making  another  horse  shield  his 
own  mount  from  heavy  air  currents  until  the  time 
came  to  make  his  move. 

Sandy  McKee  taught  the  youngster  how  to 
judge  pace  accurately,  and  day  after  day  Izzy 
developed  his  natural  talent  in  that  direction  un- 
til he  knew  within  a  fraction  of  a  second  what 
pace  he  was  setting  at  every  pole. 

With  it  all  he  still  found  time  to  write  let- 
ters,— queer  little  letters  that  he  took  first  to  his 
teacher  to  guard  against  any  mistake  in  spelling 
or  grammar;  letters  that  found  their  way  to  an 
establishment  in  New  York's  emigrant  cauldron 
where  Papa  Jacob  and  Mamma  Rebecca  retailed 
clothing  In  an  effort  to  meet  the  wholesale  de- 
mands of  the  junior  KIrschbergs.  It  was  an 
over-crowded  business,  wherefore  Jacob  Klrsch- 
berg  viewed  with  joy  Izzy's  regular  twelve  dol- 

68 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


lar  remittances,  and  Mamma  Rebecca  showed  the 
letters  to  all  the  neighbors  and  to  Mannle  Green- 
baum,  the  tailor, — proclaiming  that  "Isadore 
a  great  rider  of  horses  will  become  what  every- 
body, y'understand,  will  be  proud  to  know!" 

Other  letters,  painfully  accurate,  reached 
Izzy's  employer  and  were  read  with  mingled  in- 
terest and  aniusement. 

Rather  late  in  life,  "Baltimore"  Ryan  had 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  he  had  two  charming 
daughters,  now  at  a  marriageable  age,  and  that 
the  business  in  which  he  was  best  known  was  prov- 
ing a  handicap  to  their  natural  ambitions.  For 
their  sake  he  discontinued  the  practice  of  spin- 
ning little  marbles  at  Fortuna's  shrine.  Nor  was 
the  picturesque  profession  of  the  bookmaker  open 
to  him  any  longer,  for  parl-mutuel  machines  were 
replacing  the  old-time  slate  writers. 

So  the  man  with  the  two  beautiful  daughters 
elected  to  devote  his  talents  and  his  fortune  to 
the  field  of  the  owner  and  breeder  who  follows 
the  turf  as  a  legitimate  business  and  gets  his  great- 
est joy  in  seeing  his  colors  flash  to  the  front 
when  the  field  is  swinging  into  the  stretch.  At 
public  auction  he  secured  the  pick  of  a  well- 
known  stable,  and  set  himself  to  make  the  Balti- 
more colors — silver  stars  on  a  field  of  scarlet — 
equal  to  the  highest  traditions  of  the  sport. 

69 


RIDERS  UP! 


Spring  came  and  brought  a  letter  from  Izzy 
Kirschberg. 

Aren't  you  ever  go  to  send  for  us,  Mr.  Ryan? 
I've  been  a  good  boy  and  Baltasar  is  a  big  horse 
now.  Yesterday  I  had  him  swinging  a  mile  in 
1 141  and  the  track  is  two  seconds  slow.  Doc' 
says  the  horse  never  grew  as  a  three  year  old,  but 
he  sure  has  spread  in  the  last  two  months.  You 
ain't  forgotten  what  you  said  about  giving  us  both 
a  chance  some  day,  have  you?  Everybody's  fine 
to  me  here,  but  I'm  just  rarin'  to  go.  Your  little 
friend. 

Isidore  Kirschberg. 

P.  S.  Honest,  Mr.  Ryan,  we're  ready  to  win 
at  the  first  asking.  I  can  still  do  95  pounds. 
Please  send  for  us. 

Ryan  read  this  letter  twice  and  then  dispatched 
the  following  telegram  to  the  Pleasanton  veter- 
inarian: 

"Boy  reports  Baltasar  working  forty-one  slow 
track.     That  right." 

To  which  old  Doc'  Kelly  wired  back: 

"Yes  and  fighting  for  his  head." 

Ten  days  later  a  diminutive  and  very  happy 
youngster  showed  up  at  the  Lexington  track  in 
Kentucky  leading  a  chestnut  horse  of  unusual 
size  and  bone  and  splendid  balance. 

70 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


Izzy  Kirschberg  had  expected  to  find  "Balti- 
more" Ryan  at  the  track,  but  the  former  book- 
maker was  in  New  York  preparing  for  a  cam- 
paign on  the  Eastern  tracks.  In  Ryan's  place 
was  "Matty"  Wolff  in  charge  of  the  southern 
string,  and  "Matty,"  while  he  knew  a  whole  lot 
about  horseflesh,  knew  nothing  concerning  Izzy 
Kirschberg  and  cared  less. 

To  the  boy's  eager — "When  are  we  going  to 
start.  Mister  Wolff,"  the  trainer  replied: 

"Where  do  you  get  that  'we'  stuff  ?  I  got  more 
boys  now  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  Go  on 
over  there  with  the  'swipes'  and  if  I  want  you, 
I'll  tell  you  about  it." 

The  boy  watched  a  groom  lead  Baltasar  away, 
then  he  turned  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  sta- 
bles, his  little  mind  striving  to  readjust  itself  to 
this  unexpected  angle  of  the  game.  In  the  track 
restaurant  he  met  "Chick"  Neil,  Tommy  Castro, 
"Tongo"  Magee  and  other  boys  who  had  made 
life  miserable  for  him  in  the  old  days  at  Tia 
Juana.     Neil  was  the  first  to  spot  the  newcomer. 

"Well,  look  what  blew  In  from  Jerusalem  I" 
he  cried,  "learned  how  to  dance  yet,  Kid?" 

"No,"  said  Izzy. 

"Say  'No,  jir/  when  you're  talking  to  white 
people,"  corrected  the  older  boy. 

"No,  sir." 

71 


RIDERS  UP! 


"That's  right.  Your  education's  been  neg- 
lected, but  don't  worry,  we'll  teach  you  a  few 
things  if  you  stick  around  here." 

"You  let  me  alone,"  flared  Izzy,  "I'm  work- 
ing for  Mister  Ryan." 

"Oh,  you  are?  Well,  you'll  wish  you  weren't 
before  I  get  through  with  you.  I  happen  to  be 
first  string  jock  for  Ryan  myself,  so  don't  get  too 
ambitious,  understand?" 

Izzy  Kirschberg  understood  perfectly.  He  had 
seen  too  many  apprentice  boys  "broken"  not  to 
know  that  the  realm  of  the  regular  riders  consti- 
tutes a  charmed  circle  into  which  a  newcomer 
ventures  at  his  peril.  The  same  struggle  that 
finds  expression  on  the  stage,  in  the  business  world 
or  in  the  drawing  rooms  of  the  "400,"  is  a  charac- 
teristic of  that  mysterious  sphere  wherein  imma- 
ture youth,  hailed  by  the  multitude  and  guarded 
by  detectives,   competes   for   fame    and   fortune. 

What  happened  was  only  what  might  be  ex- 
pected. Baltasar  was  sent  to  the  post  in  a  mile 
event  with  Neil  up,  and  the  boy  hustled  his  mount 
out  in  front  setting  entirely  too  fast  a  pace  for 
a  horse  that  likes  to  come  from  behind.  Baltasar 
finished  fourth,  and  Izzy  was  broken-hearted. 
Reckless  of  consequences,  he  turned  on  "Chick'* 
Neil  in  the  jockey  room  after  the  race. 

"You  had  no  business  running  him  into  the 
72 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


ground  like  that,"  he  flamed,  "the  horse  would 
have  won  if  you'd  laid  off  the  pace.  I  could  have 
told  you  he  wasn't  a  front  runner  If  you'd  asked 
me  I" 

The  older  boy  put  his  open  hand  against  Izzy's 
face  and  thrust  the  youngster  violently  against 
the  wall.  "Don't  you  try  to  tell  me  how  to  ride," 
he  stormed,  "keep  your  beak  out  of  my  business  or 
I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body.  I  say  the 
horse  quit, — he  quit  just  like  a  certain  little 
rat  I  know  is  going  to  quit." 

"He  didn't  quit!" 

*'Chick"  Neil  needed  only  the  excuse.  His  fist 
shot  out  and  the  little  apprentice  crumpled  up  on 
the  floor.  "Boots"  Clifford,  in  charge  of  the 
jockey  room.  Interfered  hastily. 

"Cut  that  stuff  out,"  he  admonished,  "or  I'll 
turn  you  In." 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  won't,"  said  Neil,  "not  un- 
less you  want  the  stewards  to  know  who  you  were 
talking  with  Tuesday  night." 

The  retort  had  its  effect.  "Boots"  Clifford 
turned  his  attention  to  the  boy  on  the  floor  and 
prodded  the  figure  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe. 

"Quit  sniffling  and  get  up,"  he  ordered.  "I 
heard  you  call  'Chick'  a  liar.  After  this,  don't 
start  anything  you  can't  finish." 

A  week  later  the  boy  got  his  first  mount  in 
73 


RIDERS  UP! 


a  seven  furlong  selling  race.  He  had  the  leg  up 
on  Colonel  Burke,  an  aged  gelding,  and  he  man- 
aged to  get  off  well.  At  the  five-eighths  pole, 
he  moved  up  on  the  outside,  abreast  of  the  two 
leaders,  Chadbourne  on  Water  Queen,  and  Chick 
Nell  on  Bombardier.  The  latter  had  the  rail 
position. 

As  the  three  horses  made  the  turn,  Neil  bore 
deliberately  to  the  right,  crowding  the  second 
horse  Into  Baltasar.  Izzy  KIrschberg  shrilled  a 
warning,  but  the  boy  next  to  him  was  helpless.  In 
another  second  the  chestnut  fell,  throwing  his 
rider  and  bringing  down  another  horse  that  had 
been  following  close  behind.  Baltasar  escaped  in- 
jury, Izzy  emerged  with  many  bruises  and  a  frac- 
tured rib;  the  second  boy  suffered  a  broken  col- 
lar-bone, and  "Chick"  Neil  was  set  down  for  two 
weeks  for  rough  riding. 

The  Incident  didn't  make  the  little  apprentice 
any  more  popular  with  his  trainer  and  it  made 
^'Baltimore"  Ryan's  first  string  jockey  all  the 
more  vindictive.  Not  unnaturally,  the  other 
youngsters  followed  the  attitude  of  one  who  was 
a  recognized  star. 

Not  too  much  blame  should  be  put  upon 
*'Chick"  Neil.  Like  many  another  wizard  of  the 
whip  and  spurs,  he  had  been  taken  from  an 
orphanage  at  a  tender  age  and  hurled  bodily  Into 

74 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


an  environment  where  those  who  cannot  fight  their 
way  to  the  top  are  speedily  trampled  to  the  bot- 
tom. He  was  but  applying  lessons  that  he  had 
learned  through  bitter  experience.  The  wonder 
is  that  for  every  boy  of  "Chick"  Neil's  type  there 
are  a  dozen  like  little  Tad  Shafer  who  came  pat- 
tering across  the  dormitory  floor  one  night  when 
he  heard  Izzy  sobbing  in  his  bed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Kid?"  he  whispered. 

"N-nothing,"  stuttered  the  Israelite,  "it's  only 
my  bad  r-rib.  'Chick'  hit  me  there  again  to-day. 
He's  trying  to  make  me  quit." 

"The  big  bum,"  said  Tad,  "he  ought  to  lay 
off.  You  ain't  a  bad  little  Jew  at  all.  I'll  get 
some  adhesive  tape  in  the  morning  and  show  you 
how  to  put  it  on.  One  of  these  days  you  and 
me  will  jump  that  guy  together — you  climb  on 
his  back  and  I'll  wallop  him;  is  it  a  go?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Izzy,  and  followed  it  up  with 
such  protestations  of  gratitude  and  esteem,  that 
Tad  retreated  in  some  confusion. 

"Baltimore"  Ryan,  coming  down  from  New 
York  for  the  Closing  Day  Handicap  at  Latonia, 
saw  Baltasar,  with  Neil  again  in  the  saddle  beaten 
a  head  on  the  post  by  the  favorite  in  a  terrific 
drive  over  a  heavy  track.  The  big  chestnut  was 
ridden  out  hard  at  the  end  and  finished  under 
punishment. 

75 


RIDERS  UP! 


Ryan  looked  up  from  his  program  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  last  race  to  find  Izzy  Kirschberg 
tugging  at  his  sleeve. 

"Why,  hello,  Kid,"  he  cried,  "where  you  been 
keeping  yourself?" 

"You  ought  to  know.  Mister,"  the  boy  re- 
minded, "I  been  right  here  waiting  for  you.  Me 
and  Baltasar  ain't  been  able  to  hook  up." 

"Well,  Matty  is  boss  down  here,"  said  Ryan, 
"that  was  a  tough  race  to  lose." 

"Tough  race  is  right,  Mister,"  the  boy  agreed; 
"old  Doc'  Kelly  told  me  that  after  a  horse  is 
ridden  out  like  that  he  either  goes  back  or  he 
improves, — that's  what  I  want  to  see  you  about." 

The  owner  looked  puzzled. 

"It's  the  Brooklyn  Handicap  at  Aqueduct," 
pleaded  Izzy — "give  us  a  chance,  will  you,  Mister 
Ryan?  Let  me  and  Baltasar  go  to  the  post; 
I  ain't  been  working  him  for  a  year  without  know- 
ing how  to  handle  him.  It  won't  cost  you  any- 
thing and  it  means  an  awful  lot  to  me.  Go  on, 
Mister,  pleaseT 

Ryan  looked  down  at  the  eager  little  face  and 
checked  the  jest  that  suggested  itself. 

"Not  this  time,  Izzy,"  he  explained  gently. 
"You're  picking  the  most  popular  classic  in 
America,  and  I  hope  I've  got  that  race  sewed  up 
in  my  vest  pocket.    I  can't  afford  to  take  chances. 

76 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


Nell  will  ride  Fireball  and  I  bought  and  groomed 
the  horse  specially  for  that  race.  It's  Fireball 
to  win,  and  a  busted  stable  if  he  don't." 

The  boy  studied  the  ground  a  moment  and  then 
looked  up  again.  It's  a  mile  and  a  quarter,  Mis- 
ter, and  that's  Baltasar's  distance.  Couldn't  you 
make  it  a  stable  entry  and  let  both  of  us  start? 
I'd  get  the  apprentice  allowance  and  we'd  be  in 
light.  I  can  ride,  Mister — don't  let  nobody  tell 
you  I  can't.  I  been  studying  every  boy  on  the 
track  and  there  ain't  any  of  them  that  hasn't 
taught  me  something.  Mister,  I  want  to  show 
them  that  a  Jew  isn't  a  quitter,  and  I  want  to 
make  good  for  you  like  I  promised." 

The  youngster  paused  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

Ryan's  mind  went  back  to  his  conversation 
with  the  "Information  Kid"  In  the  billiard  room 
at  San  Diego,  and  to  those  queer  pedigree  charts 
concerning  which  "the  little  Professor"  had 
waxed  so  enthusiastic.  After  all,  a  second  string 
horse  had  been  known  to  prove  of  value  In  a  big 
race.  There  would  be  three  or  four  stables  with 
more  than  one  entry,  and  In  a  large  field  Baltasar 
might  kill  off  some  of  the  early  speed  and  serve 
as  a  pace-setter  for  Fireball.  Ryan  patted  Izzy 
KIrschberg  on  the  head. 

'Til  think  It  over,"  he  promised.  "Fortunately 
77 


RIDERS  UP! 


I  entered  the  whole  stable  in  the  spring.  We'll 
see  what  Matty  has  to  say  about  it.  Have  the 
kids  taught  you  how  to  dance  yet?" 

''No,  sir." 

"And  you  haven't  changed  your  name?" 

''No,  sir." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  looking  at  me  like 
that  for?" 

The  youngster  shook  his  head,  but  in  his  dark 
eyes  was  the  hidden  fire  of  the  centuries  and  in 
his  voice  was  the  prophetic  tone  of  the  dreamer: 

"I'm  going  to  make  good  for  you.  Mister." 

Ryan  laughed  good-naturedly.  "All  right,  Kid  I 
— run  along  now  and  I'll  see  about  your  trans- 
portation." 

Thus  it  happened  that  little  Isidore  Kirsch- 
berg  went  on  to  New  York  with  Baltasar  to  com- 
pete in  the  most  aristocratic  event  on  the  calen- 
dar of  the  American  turf.  Nor  did  he  ever  know 
that  Matty  Wolff,  agreeing  readily  to  a  stable 
entry,  threw  up  his  hands  at  the  idea  of  a  raw 
apprentice  rider,  and  only  an  eleventh  hour  acci- 
dent to  "Gene"  Daly,  second-string  jockey,  upset 
the  cards  and  surrendered  Baltasar's  destiny  to 
the  hands  that  the  horse  knew  best  of  all.  Ar- 
riving in  New  York,  the  boy  flew  to  the  east  side 
as  straight  as  a  homing  pigeon. 

If  ever  there  was  a  proud  and  happy  child  of 

78 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


the  Ghetto  It  was  the  boy  who  flung  himself  Into 
the  arms  of  Mamma  and  Papa  Kirschberg,  and 
who  hugged  his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  shook 
hands  with  all  the  admiring  neighbors,  and  told 
over  and  over  again  the  story  of  his  wanderings, 
saying  never  a  word  of  the  dark  chapters, — but 
painting  In  golden  tones — the  greatness  of  "Bal- 
timore" Ryan  and  the  miracle  that  had  come  to 
him — Isadore  Kirschberg. 

In  came  Rabbi  Vorrath  who  lived  next  door; 
In  came  Mannle  Greenbaum,  the  tailor,  and  Mose 
Kruvotsky  and  Mrs.  Kruvotsky,  and  the  Son- 
nenschelns. 

"You  see.  Mamma,"  explained  Izzy,  stradd- 
ling a  chair  and  tilting  forward  to  Illustrate  Balta- 
sar,  "I  sit  way  up  like  this,  y'understand,  and  I 
hold  the  reins  so — and  I  watch  all  the  other  boys, 
and  just  when  they  are  going  to  make  their  move 
— Schma!  I  try  to  beat  them!     Seel" 

From  the  Inner  pocket  of  his  jacket,  he  pro- 
duced the  scarlet  and  silver  racing  cap,  pressed 
It  on  his  head — and,  leaning  well  forward  on  the 
chair,  bounced  up  and  down. 

He  concluded  his  performance  and,  looking 
up  for  approval,  saw  his  mother's  wide  eyes  fast- 
ened on  the  gorgeous  cap. 

"01,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kirschberg,  "a  silk  cap 
he  has,  and  see,  everybody — there  Is  on  It  Mogen 

79 


RIDERS  UP! 


Dovid;  he  has  not  forgotten — Oi,  mein  kind- 
lehenr 

The  little  group  pressed  forward,  and  Rabbi 
Vorrath  took  the  cap  in  his  hands. 

^'Emes,  emesf'^  he  exclaimed,  "verily  it  Is 
true — the  boy  wears  the  shield  of  David." 

Izzy's  wondering  eyes  went  again  to  the  gorge- 
ous cap  and  there,  looking  up  at  him,  from  a 
background  of  scarlet,  was  the  symbol  of  Judah, — 
the  hope  of  her  children, — the  six-pointed  star  of 
Israeli 

Into  the  boy*s  eyes  danced  the  high-lights.  His 
lips  quivered. 

**It  is  the  sign,"  he  said,  "you  are  all  my  peo- 
ple and  It  is  for  you  that  I  want  to  win.  Come 
to  the  track  if  you  can  and  I  will  do  my  best." 

Rabbi  Vorrath  stroked  his  beard  and  looked 
about  him.  One  after  another  of  the  little  group 
nodded  and  came  forward  to  shake  the  boy's 
hand.     He  understood.   .    .    . 

In  all  the  world  there  is  nothing  quite  like 
the  scene  at  post  time  in  the  Brooklyn  Handi- 
cap, twelve  kings  and  queens  of  the  turf,  sid- 
ling up  to  a  three  Inch  ribbon  under  the  concen- 
trated gaze  of  a  hundred  thousand  eyes;  each  boy 
trying  to  outmaneuver  the  others, — the  heavy- 
weights anxious  to  be  off;  the  lightweights  eager 
to  prolong  the  wait;  the  assistant  starters  dart- 

80 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


ing  into  the  tangle,  swearing,  lashing  out  with 
the  whips;  the  starter  standing  there  with  hand 
on  the  trigger — pleading,  cajoling,  threatening: 

"Bring  that  horse  up  on  the  outside  .  .  .  turn 
him  around  .  .  .  Johnson,  if  you  break  through 
again,  I'll  put  you  on  the  ground  for  two  weeks. 
.  .  .  Don't  talk  back  to  me  .  .  .  Come  over 
here  with  that  chestnut  .  .  .  Randall — you'll  get 
left  I  .  .  .  move  over,  number  five.  Now,  then 
— swing  'em  together,  swing —  ....  No — no, 
you  don't  ...  get  back  and  try  it  over  .  .  . 
come  up  easy  .   .   .  e-a-s-y.  .   .   .  GoT* 

Tad  Schafer  on  Sierra  Madre,  anticipating  the 
command,  drove  his  mount  at  the  barrier,  ducked 
as  it  flashed  up,  and  was  away  two  lengths  in  the 
lead,  hugging  the  rail.  Behind  him  thundered  the 
pack,  every  boy  fighting  for  position  and  watch- 
ing the  pace. 

Only  the  official  caller  could  have  determined 
who  broke  second  and  he  gave  it  to  Baltasar,  with 
Arc  Light  third  and  Old  Alliance  fourth.  The 
others  were  well  bunched.  Before  they  had 
reached  the  first  quarter,  Izzy  Kirschberg  took 
his  horse  off  the  pace  and  brought  him  back  into 
the  second  division.  As  he  did  so.  Fireball  nosed 
alongside  and  then  drew  clear.  "Chick"  Neil,  off 
badly,  was  hustling  the  horse  up  to  the  front. 

8i 


RIDERS  UP! 


Izzy  shouted  a  warning.  Even  in  the  midst  of 
the  greatest  excitement  he  had  ever  known,  he 
had  time  to  realize  that  Fireball,  heavily  played 
favorite,  waS  being  rushed  up  before  he  had  been 
steadied  in  his  stride.  The  little  apprentice  re- 
membered his  instructions:  "Go  out  in  front  and 
stay  there  as  long  as  you  can."  But  he  knew  that 
to  every  jockey  is  given  the  right  to  exercise  his 
judgment  if  the  situation  is  changed  by  unforeseen 
circumstances.  Sierra  Madre  was  already  killing 
off  all  the  early  foot;  Fireball  was  expending 
strength  that  he  should  have  held  in  reserve.  Izzy 
Kirschberg  steadied  Baltasar  and  dropped  him 
back  into  seventh  position. 

The  field  spread  out  in  the  back  stretch,  the 
Harwood  entry  and  Thistle  Dawn  assuming  com- 
mand, followed  by  three  horses  running  abreast. 
Just  before  the  turn,  Izzy  elected  to  make  his 
move,  and  then  he  found  the  outside  of  the  track 
blocked  by  Old  Alliance  who  was  hanging  on 
gamely.  He  turned  the  chestnut's  nose  to  the  left 
and,  risking  a  pocket,  moved  in  between  the  two 
horses  In  front  of  him,  giving  Baltasar  his  head. 

At  Izzy's  left  was  Tad  Shafer  on  the  tiring 
Sierra  Madre.  Tad  looked  across  and  saw  that 
the  boy  abreast  of  him  was  veering  in  to  shut  off 
the  chestnut;  he  looked  back  and  noted  that  Balta- 

82 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


sar  was  running  strong  and  he  caught  the  plead- 
ing look  in  the  eyes  of  Izzy  Kirschberg. 

With  scarcely  a  moment's  hesitation,  game  lit- 
tle Tad  pulled  his  own  horse  into  the  fence,  one 
small  boot  crunching  against  the  top  rail. 

"G'on  through,  kid,"  he  yelled,  "go  get  'em, 
Izzy!    Take  the  outside!'* 

The  boots  of  the  three  boys  brushed  as  "Balti- 
more" Ryan's  apprentice  squeezed  through  the 
opening  and  emerged  from  the  ruck.  In  a  half- 
dozen  jumps  he  was  on  the  crown  of  the  track 
and  drawing  alongside  Fireball,  the  latter  pound- 
ing heavily  along  in  sixth  place. 

"Chick"  Neil  caught  the  significance  of  the  big 
horse  nosing  up  to  Fireball's  saddle-girths. 

"Keep  out  of  my  way,  you  little  rat,"  he 
snarled, — "you  cut  me  off  and  I'll  kill  you!" 

Baltasar  continued  to  forge  ahead  until  the 
two  scarlet  blouses  with  the  silver  stars  were  whip- 
ping in  the  wind  on  a  parallel  line. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  panted  Izzy,  "you've  shot 
your  bolt;  you're  through  .  .  .  I'm  going  out  in 
front!" 

The  hot  blood  surged  into  the  other  boy's  head. 
He  set  aside  his  own  future,  his  employer's  in- 
terests, and  the  obvious  fact  that  Baltasar  was 
coupled  with  Fireball  in  the  betting.  He  realized 
only  that  he  had  blundered;  that  his  own  mount 

83 


RIDERS  UP! 


was  caving;  and  that  a  despised  stable  boy  was 
taunting  him. 

*'Try  to  show  me  up,  will  you?"  he  shrilled. 
"Take  that,  and  get  out  of  my  way !" 

Full  across  the  face,  a  whip  struck  Izzy  Kirsch- 
berg,  searing  the  flesh  from  scalp  to  chin.  The 
boy  reeled,  recovered,  reeled  again — and  clung 
dizzily.     Baltasar  faltered  and  dropped  back. 

Ninety-nine  boys  out  of  a  hundred  would  have 
given  up,  but  In  the  veins  of  the  lad  on  the  great 
chestnut  flowed  the  blood  of  a  race  which  has 
survived  fire  and  sword  through  the  centuries, 
and  has  taught  Its  children  to  struggle  on  though 
despair  be  their  birthright. 

Izzy  Kirschberg  remembered  what  old  Doc' 
Kelly  and  Sandy  McKee  had  told  him  about  the 
reaction  of  a  thoroughbred  to  its  rider.  By 
sheer  will  power  he  stifled  his  agony,  pressed  his 
thighs  more  firmly  against  the  withers,  and  tele- 
graphed a  message  of  assurance  along  the  reins. 
Through  cracked  lips,  he  clucked  to  Baltasar,  and 
the  chestnut  lunged  forward,  his  stride  length- 
ening. 

Horse  and  boy  made  the  turn  without  losing  a 
foot  of  ground  and  straightened  away  for  the 
stretch  run  that  Is  the  longest  of  any  track  in 
America.     They  picked  up  the  fifth  horse,  then 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


two  more  running  abreast,  then  another.  The 
boy  knew  there  was  one  more,  and  desperately 
he  laid  his  face  down  against  Baltasar's  steaming 
neck  and  went  to  work.  Dizzy  w^lth  vertigo  he 
made  out  a  shadow  ahead  on  the  left  and  knew 
that  he  was  gaming  on  it. 

Then  the  swollen  ridge  on  his  face  burst  and 
the  red  mist  crept  into  his  eyes  and  little  Izzy 
KIrschberg  rode  on  to  the  roaring  stands;  on  to 
his  own  people  shrieking  his  name ;  on  to  the 
little  clubhouse  where  a  big  man,  watching  through 
field  glasses,  kept  his  face  expressionless  but  bit 
clean  through  his  cigar. 

The  vocal  tempest  reached  its  climax  In  a 
mighty  blast  at  the  wire  and  then  receded.  The 
boy  pressed  on  mechanically  but  the  horse  under- 
stood, and  dropping  Into  a  blown  canter,  eventu- 
ally turned,  and  of  his  own  accord,  trotted  back 
to  the  groom  that  was  running  toward  him. 

The  reaction  came  and  the  little  apprentice 
swayed  in  the  saddle,  aware  that  he  was  approach- 
ing the  judges'  stand,  and  terribly  afraid  that  he 
had  failed.  He  cleared  his  eyes  of  blood  and 
dust  and  held  up  his  whip  for  permission  to  dis- 
mount. Dark  forms  engulfed  him.  He  heard 
the  shouting  thousands,  but  still  he  waited. 

*'Hell  and  seven  hundred  dollars!"  boomed  a 
85 


RIDERS  UP! 


voice  in  his  ears,  "you  wonderful  kid — come  down 
off  that  horse!" 

And  Izzy  came — pitching  headfirst  into  the 
arms  of  "Baltimore"  Ryan.  He  straightened  up, 
clinging  to  his  employer. 

"Did  I  make  good,  Mister? — I  couldn't  see. 
Did  I  win?" 

Ryan  took  the  boy  in  his  arms.  "By  two 
lengths,  son,"  he  assured,  "and  going  away!  For 
the  love  of  God  tell  me  who  hit  you — tell  me 
his  name!" 

Izzy  shook  his  head.  Still  carrying  the  boy  in 
his  arms,  Ryan  headed  for  the  judges'  stand. 
But  before  he  could  get  to  the  steps,  a  man 
leaned  out  the  window  and  shouted: 

"Bring  Neil  up  here — get  hold  of  that  boy!" 
And  Ryan  knew  from  the  tone  of  the  voice  that 
his  first  string  jockey  would  never  again  wear 
silk. 

He  hugged  Izzy  Kirschberg  and  hoisted  the 
boy,  facing  the  stands.     The  clamor  redoubled. 

"Hear  that  music,  son?  Drink  it  in,  boy,  it's 
all  for  you — and  from  now  on,  you'll  hear  it 
often!" 

The  boy  smiled  happily  for  high  above  the 
thunder  of  the  stands,  his  quick  ear  caught  the 
high-pitched  chant  of  a  little  group  of  frenzied 
men  and  women,  who  had  never  been  to  a  track 

86 


STAR  OF  ISRAEL 


before — standing  high  up  in  the  gallery  and  cry- 
ing over  and  again: 

"Gott  fun  Avrohom,  Yitzchok  un  Yakov!" 
God  of  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob!  "Heidad, 
Mogen  Dovid!"    Hail,  Star  of  Israel! 


IV.     WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES 
MARCHING  HOME 

Lir  jay  street  in  a  liV  hick  town; 
LiV  oV  house  'most  tumhlin  down; 
Lir  gray  mother  close  by  the  gate 
Looks  and  listens — she'll  always  wait — 
Pretty  long  time  since  he  started  to  roam — 
Some  day  Johnny'll  come  marchin    home! 

— Hearts  and  Hoofbeats. 

IT  was  Get-Away  Day  at  Tijuana,  and  the 
Information  Kid  was  going  home. 
It  wasn't  the  first  time  the  Kid  had  planned 
that  very  thing.  The  children  of  the  racetrack 
are  always  going  home — some  day.  It  Is  the  pet 
delusion  of  those  who  follow  the  trail  of  the 
thoroughbred  through  the  channels  of  chance. 

The  rest  of  the  world  measures  hope  and  de- 
sire by  the  ship  whose  sails  loom  on  the  eternal 
horizon,  but  the  clan  of  the  bang-tail  look  always 
to  the  day  when,  sure  as  Fate,  some  sweating, 
hooded,  bandaged  galloper  will  swing  around  the 
far  turn,  safely  in  the  lead,  carrying  life's  ulti- 
mate objective  right  on  his  nose!  When  that 
great  day  comes,  every  knight  of  the  betting  ring 

88 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


is  going  home  with  bells  on  to  knock  the  old  town 
dead. 

The  Information  Kid  turned  into  the  long  ave- 
nue of  barns  and  headed  for  the  Watercress  sta- 
ble. His  slim  figure  was  resplendent  in  a  new 
checkered  suit,  set  off  with  a  knitted  tie  of  pluto- 
cratic purple  from  which  a  diamond  winked  mer- 
rily. The  early  morning  sunshine  caressed  his 
frame;  a  joyous  heart  pumped  fresh  young  blood 
through  every  vein;  and  an  inside  pocket  of  his 
coat  bulged  with  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  in 
currency,  the  largest  bank-roll  the  Kid  had  ever 
amassed  in  his  twenty-four  years  of  existence. 

"Sweet  baby,"  he  murmured,  patting  the  roll 
of  greenbacks,  *'don't  let  go  of  daddy's  hand. 
This  is  the  day  we  just  sit  back  and  watch  the 
wolves  eat  Grandma!" 

The  advice  was  entirely  superfluous,  for  the 
Kid  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  permitting 
the  bundle  of  currency  to  become  separated  from 
the  pocket  that  was  sealed  by  safety-pins.  The 
Kid  was  going  home  while  the  going  was  good. 
Pure  curiosity  led  him  to  the  track  that  morning; 
habit  steered  him  to  the  last  stall  in  the  Water- 
cress barn  where  his  quick  ears  caught  the  voice 
of  Snowball,  lilting  a  melody  while  he  wiped  oflf 
Sandtown,  steaming  from  a  brisk  workout. 

The  Information  Kid  draped  himself  over  the 

89 


RIDERS  UP! 


half-door,  and  gravely  considered  the  bay  geld- 
ing. The  colored  swipe  nodded  to  him,  and  then 
continued  his  song: 

De  Camptown  ladies  sing  dis  song. 

Doodah!    Doodah! 
De  Camptown  race  track's  five  miles  long, 

O  Doodah  Day! 
I  come  down  heah  wif  my  hat  caved  in, 
I'm  goin    back  home  wif  a  pocketful  of  tin, 

O  Doodah  Day! 

*'Mawnin',  Kid,  ya'll  want  a  good  thing  to- 
day?" 

"Ye-ah,  but  not  that  thing.'' 

Snowball  grunted  indignantly,  and  then  re- 
sumed his  vocal  efforts: 

De  long  tail  filly  and  de  big  black  horse. 

Doodah!    Doodah! 
They  fiy  de  track  and  dey  both  cut  across, 

O  Doodah  Day! 
De  black  horse  stickin   in  a  big  mud  hole. 
Can't  touch  de  bottom  wif  a  ten-foot  pole, 

O  Doodah  Day! 

He  whirled  suddenly  on  the  Kid: 

"Worked  down  the  back  stretch  this  mawnin', 
five  furlongs  in  i.oi  2-5.  Boy,  dis  old  bird 
am  inP'' 

*Te-ah,  he's  in  the  morgue — that's  where  he 
90 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


is!     Who's    going    to    be    the    'Casey    Jones'?" 

"Jockey  Williams  goin'  ride  him — dat's  whol 
Ninety-five  pounds  up,  and  they've  got  de  money 
placed  from  heah  to  de  North  Pole.  Kid,  dis  am 
a  special  soft  spot." 

The  Information  Kid  grinned  cheerfully. 

"You  give  me  that  old  whisper  on  opening  day, 
remember?  And  I  gave  Johnny  Walker  as  my 
special.  Say,  the  way  that  dog  ran  you'd  think 
he  was  swimmin'  in  glue!" 

"Dat  was  de  boy  what  spilled  de  beans,"  pro- 
tested Snowball.  "Dis  time  y'all  goin'  see  Sand- 
town  come  home  on  the  chin  strap." 

"And  I'm  goin*  home  on  the  cushions,"  con- 
cluded the  Kid.  "Snowball,  you  have  my  best 
regards." 

He  vanished  toward  the  Carroll  stables.  After 
him  rolled  a  confident  chorus,  as  Snowball  vigor- 
ously massaged  Sandtown : 

Gwine  ter  run  all  night! 

Gwine  ter  run  all  day! 

I  bets  my  money  on  de  bob-tailed  nag. 

Somebody  bet  on  de  bay! 

At  a  row  of  stalls  fringing  the  eastern  end  of 
the  track,  the  Kid  encountered  "Doggie"  Brown, 
one  of  the  whisper  low  gentry  with  whom  he 
occasionally     exchanged     information.       Doggie 

91 


RIDERS  UP! 


dragged  him  into  the  privacy  of  a  tanbark  corri- 
dor. There  was  no  one  within  hearing  distance, 
much  less  in  sight,  but  the  hustler  always  spoke 
as  though  he  was  surrounded  by  dictaphones. 

"Peaches  and  cream,"  he  whispered,  "here^s 
something  too  good  to  be  true " 

"Well,  write  it  out  if  you  can^t  talk,"  advised 
the  Kid,  "I'm  kind  of  deaf  this  morning." 

Thus  encouraged.  Doggie  raised  his  voice  very 
slightly : 

"Old  man  Tassel  is  going  to  shoot  with  Johnny 
Walker  in  the  last  race,  and  the  better  the  price 
the  faster  he'll  run " 

"What  about  Sandtown?" 

"Not  a  chance.  Johnny's  going  to  be  hopped 
up  so  he  can  run  over  the  moon  if  necessary;  it's 
going  to  be  the  fattest  coup  pulled  off  in  years. 
Now,  don't  tell  your  own  mother  I" 

Once  more  the  Kid  grinned.  "Doggie,"  he 
adjured,  "you're  too  young  to  be  around  this  track 
to-day.  If  they  put  a  powder  under  old  Johnny 
Walker's  tongue,  he'll  run  himself  to  death  in  the 
first  quarter,  and  old  man  Tassel  will  be  pinched 
for  obstructing  the  traffic.  But  you  have  my  best 
regards,  and  may  your  conscience  guide  you!" 

"Go  take  a  running  jump  at  yourself,"  advised 
Doggie — "and  don't  blame  me  if  this  thing  hops 

92 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


down  in  front  at  a  hundred  to  one,  understand? 
Don't  say  I  didn't  tell  you!" 

The  Information  Kid  nodded  good-naturedly 
and  ambled  off.  Once  beyond  the  range  of  Dog- 
gie Brown's  vision,  he  doubled  back  and  made  his 
way  to  Johnny  Walker's  stall.  A  chunky  black 
gelding  lifted  his  head  from  the  feed-trough  and 
stared  at  him. 

The  Kid  addressed  the  animal  confidentially: 

^'Johnny,"  he  commented,  "you  carry  your  head 
too  high,  you're  a  little  too  fleshy;  you've  got  ring- 
bones and  sore  shoulders,  and  your  pedigree 
shows  an  unbroken  line  of  hounds;  outside  of 
that  you're  all  right!" 

Around  the  corner  of  the  barn  came  "Froggie" 
Miller,  an  apprentice  rider  for  "Dixie"  Mason. 
Froggie  was  a  hunchback,  but  he  had  good  hands 
and  a  firm  seat,  and  could  strip  at  seventy-five 
pounds.    The  Information  Kid  liked  the  boy. 

"  'Lo,  Frog,"  he  called,  "I  hear  you're  going 
to  be  in  the  cab  on  Captain  Ace  in  the  last  event — 
Is  he  ready  for  the  question?'* 

Froggie  looked  up  at  him  out  of  frank  blue 
eyes. 

"I  think  he'll  win,  Kid.  Mr.  Mason  has  prom- 
ised to  cut  the  purse  with  me  if  we  come  down  in 
front,  and  It  won't  be  my  fault  if  we  don't.    I  got 

93 


RIDERS  UP! 


permission  to  go  home  for  a  month,  so  I'm  riding 
for  dough  to-day." 

The  Kid  nodded  kindly.  "Good  luck!  Take 
him  out  in  front,  you've  got  a  chance.  If  you 
lay  back  with  him,  some  kid  is  liable  to  ride  you 
over  the  rail;  everybody's  shooting  to-day.'* 

'Til  be  careful,"  promised  Froggle. 

The  Information  Kid  proceeded  on  his  per- 
sonally conducted  tour.  The  further  he  went, 
the  more  information  he  collected,  a  policy  which 
accounted  for  his  pseudonym.  But  the  Kid  had 
cut  his  wisdom  teeth  early  in  life.  He  discounted 
seventy-five  per  cent  of  all  stable  gossip,  and 
interpreted  the  balance  after  a  manner  that  was 
strictly  his  own.  When  it  came  to  Get-Away 
Day,  the  percentage  of  information  which  he 
trusted  was  absolutely  nil.  The  final  day  at  any 
track  finds  the  fodder  low  in  the  feed-troughs, 
and  every  unscrupulous  owner  and  trainer  anx- 
ious to  earn  get-away  money,  by  fair  means  or 
Mexican.  This  time,  the  Kid  sensed  that  there 
was  more  dynamite  In  the  air  than  usual.  At  the 
north  exit,  he  came  to  a  sensible  conclusion. 

"This  is  no  place  for  an  Innocent  boy,  believe 
me!  Any  guy  who  tries  to  pick  'em  to-day  will 
go  home  without  even  the  key  to  the  front  door. 
I  think  I  hear  my  mother  calling  me;  ye-ah,  I'm 

94 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


sure  of  It !  Bye-bye,  you  old  mud  hole — you  have 
my  best  regards."  --^-       - -^-^ 

He  waved  an  airy  farewell  at  the  green  and 
white  pavilion,  patted  his  bulging  pocket  reassur- 
ingly, and  sprinted  for  the  auto  stage  that  was 
leaving  for  San  Diego. 

"Here's  the  only  wise  stunt  I  ever  pulled  in 
my  life,"  he  muttered,  "the  Spaniard  that  takes 
my  roll  away  from  me  to-day  will  have  to  run 
faster  than  Man  o'  War.  Once  let  me  get  on  the 
old  choo-choo,  and  I'll  be  safe  from  everybody 
except  the  porter.     Yea,  bo  I" 

He  alighted  at  the  San  Diego  plaza  In  the  heart 
of  the  city,  hesitated,  and  then  sauntered  across 
to  the  curb  that  flanked  the  Grant  Hotel  where  a 
perambulating  news  wagon  represented  the  stock 
In  trade  of  old  "General  Jeff,"  who  was  neither  a 
general,  nor  was  his  real  name  Jeff.  He  was 
merely  a  faded  old  man  of  unknown  Identity  with 
scrubby  whiskers,  a  fondness  for  badges,  and  a 
weakness  of  vision  that  Imposed  upon  customers 
the  obligation  of  honesty.  The  title  of  General 
Jeff  was  bestowed  for  purely  humorous  reasons 
by  a  clientele  which  purchased  from  him  printed 
selections  on  the  day's  races  at  Tijuana.  These 
tips  were  enclosed  In  envelopes  which  were  em- 
blazoned with  the  labels:  "Ex-Jockey  Mason's 
Code,"    "Master    Handicapper's    Tips,"    "Rall- 

95 


RIDERS  UP! 


bird's  Triple  X  Special."  The  selections  were 
all  different,  but  they  emanated  from  the  same 
author.  What  the  Information  Kid  didn't  guess 
under  one  name,  he  picked  under  another — and 
thus  was  usually  In  a  position  to  advertise  win- 
ners.    The  Kid  defended  the  practice  this  way: 

"Some  men  favor  cinch  bets,  others  like  to  play 
commission  nags,  and  there's  always  the  birds 
who  want  to  take  a  chance  with  the  long  shots. 
So  I  pick  'em  three  ways,  give  the  boys  their 
choice,  and  charge  'em  only  two  bucks;  what 
could  be  fairer?  They  have  my  best  regards  and 
may  their  conscience  guide  them  I" 

The  Information  Kid  and  General  Jeff  under- 
stood each  other  from  long  association.  The  Kid 
picked  'em,  or  tried  to,  and  the  old  newsdealer 
with  the  bad  eyes  peddled  to  a  gullible  public  the 
threefold  product  of  the  Kid's  wisdom. 

They  exchanged  greetings  and  then  General 
Jeff,  with  a  flush  on  his  withered  cheeks,  and  his 
voice  childishly  exultant,  broke  the  great  news. 
The  Kid  listened  open-mouthed,  until  the  General 
concluded  with  a  quivering — "So,  you  see,  Kid, 
I'm  fixed  for  life!" 

"Why,  you  old  son-of-a-gun,  put  it  there!" 

"And  I'm  to  have  a  bureau,  and  they  change 
the  sheets  twice  a  week,  and  serve  ice  cream  on 
Sunday  I" 

96 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


"Well,  what  do  you  know!" 

"Ain't  you  never  seen  the  place,  Kid?  It's  up 
there  on  the  cliffs.  The  grounds  cover  half  a 
block — and  there's  all  kinds  of  flowers.  Of 
course  I  can't  see  'em  very  good,  but  I  can  smell 
'em.  Miramar  Home  they  call  it,  and  I  got  a 
room  picked  out  on  the  top  floor  1" 

The  Information  Kid  was  visibly  impressed. 
To  put  It  more  accurately,  he  was  amazed.  To 
think  of  General  Jeff  saving  enough  money  to  buy 
himself  a  life  home — actually  retiring  on  velvet  I 
Well,  you  never  can  figure  those  old  birds.  Just 
when  you  expect  them  to  hit  you  for  the  price  of 
the  next  meal,  they  pull  something  like  that ! 

"Got  to  hand  It  to  you,  old  pal,"  admitted  the 
Kid.  "You  slipped  one  over  that  time;  never 
thought  you  had  any  kind  of  a  sack  at  all.  But 
there  Isn't  any  one  any  gladder  than  me  to  see  old 
Jeff  hitched  to  a  feed-trough  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  Here's  the  last  day's  pickings,  and  you're 
welcome  to  whatever  they  bring  in — I'm  blowin'." 

General  Jeff  fingered  the  package  which  the 
Kid  handed  over,  deftly  measured  the  envelopes, 
parted  them  according  to  size,  and  tucked  them 
into  the  proper  compartments  on  the  shelf  of 
his  wagon. 

"Much  obliged,"  he  acknowledged.  "Yds,  sir, 
after  to-day  old  Jeff  won't  have  to  worry  about 

97 


RIDERS  UP! 


the  future;  no  more  hustlin'  papers  in  the  rain; 
no  more  peddlin'  tips — just  going  to  live  like  a 
gentleman.  You  following  the  bunch  to  Reno, 
Kid?" 

"No,  Jeff,  Fm  off  the  ponies  for  a  while;  I'm 
going  home." 

"Home?" 

"Ye-ah,  home — sounds  funny,  don't  it?  I  been 
promising  my  old  lady  every  year  that  I'd  do  it. 
Hit  the  books  for  a  wad  this  week  and  got  myself 
some  glad  rags.     I'll  knock  the  old  folks  silly!" 

General  Jeff  ran  his  hands  over  the  new  ward- 
robe and  peered  into  the  Kid's  cleanly  shaven 
face. 

"Good    on   you,    young   man!"    he    enthused. 

"When  you  going?" 

"To-night." 

"To-night,  eh?  The  General's  head  wagged 
approvingly.  "If  I  was  you,  Kid — I'd  never  buck 
the  game  any  more.  I'd  never  go  near  a  track 
again  if  I  was  you.  I'm  through  with  the  game 
after  just  this  one  time." 

"What  one  time?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that,"  said  Jeff  plaintively. 
"I've  got  a  favor  to  ask,  Kid.  Maybe  you  won't 
understand,  but  it's  like  this.  I  was  born  and 
brought  up  within  smelling  distance  of  stables, 
but  I  ain't  been  to  a  track  in  years.     What's  the 

98 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


use?  I  can't  see  the  numbers,  or  nothin'.  Now 
I'm  going  where  all  I'll  have  to  do  is  just  sit 
around  and  talk.  There's  a  lot  of  horsemen  up 
at  Miramar  Home,  Kid — men  like  Montana  Pete 
Smith  and  Jerky  Dugan,  and  Mose  Griggs.  They 
went  there  right  from  the  track,  and  they  got  a 
lot  to  talk  about.  Seems  like  I  won't  fit  in,  un- 
less I  been  at  the  track,  too — so's  I  can  have  my 
say.    I  want  to  retire  right  from  the  track." 

"Right  from  the  track?"  The  Kid  was 
puzzled. 

'That's  it,"  confirmed  Jeff.  "Will  you  take 
me  along  with  you  this  afternoon,  and  call  off 
the  last  race?  You  got  good  eyes,  and  mine  are 
about  gone,  but  by  you  describing  everything  just 
as  it  happens  I  can  see,  understand?  Will  you  do 
that.  Kid?" 

The  youth  in  the  checked  suit  frowned  medita- 
tively. It  was  a  hunch  that  caused  him  to  turn 
his  back  on  Tijuana  that  morning,  and  the  Kid 
was  a  firm  believer  in  hunches.  Still,  no  one 
could  make  him  risk  his  money  once  he  had  de- 
termined against  such  a  thing,  and  the  Limited  did 
not  leave  until  dark.  Further,  the  Information 
Kid,  according  to  the  standards  of  the  turf,  was 
a  pretty  good  sport.  He  glanced  again  at  the 
old  man's  pleading  expression. 

99 


RIDERS  UP! 


''Why,  sure,  Jeff,"  he  agreed,  "Fll  be  glad  to 
go  along  with  you.  I'll  call  every  race  on  the 
card." 

"No,  just  the  last,  Kid,  that's  all;  I  just  want 
to  see  old  Johnny  Walker  come  marching  home 
all  by  himself  at  a  hundred  to  one!" 

The  Kid  clapped  a  hand  to  his  forehead. 

"Help!  Murder!  Police!"  he  croaked.  "Jeff, 
are  you  still  following  that  old  hound?  How 
many  times  do  I  have  to  tell  you  that  he's  dead? 
The  undertaker's  got  him  embalmed,  and  it's  a 
sin  against  nature  to  send  him  to  the  post." 

The  General  plucked  nervously  at  his  whis- 
kers. 

"He  beat  Arbor  Hill  at  New  Orleans.  You 
look  it  up." 

The  Information  Kid  controlled  himself  with 
an  effort. 

"Listen,  Jeff,"  he  appealed:  "I'll  take  you  out 
to  the  track  and  give  you  an  earful,  but  forget 
Johnny  Walker.  I  know  all  about  the  race  you're 
thinking  of — I  was  there.  The  boy  on  Arbor  Hill 
was  rolling  a  cigarette  in  one  hand,  and  pulling 
his  horse  with  the  other.  Why,  every  jock  in  the 
race  had  a  ticket  on  Johnny  Walker  that  day,  and 
they  just  naturally  shooed  him  down  to  the  pay 
off  station.  Seven  furlongs  in  1 132 !  If  that  ain't 
a  funeral  march,  I'm  the  queen  of  Egypt." 

100 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


General  Jeff  shook  his  head  with  the  obstinacy 
of  an  old  man  clinging  to  a  pet  obsession. 

*'You  and  me  been  fighting  a  long  time  about 
that  horse,  Kid — a  long  time — me  always  play- 
ing him,  and  you  always  telling  me  not  to.  You've 
been  right  all  along,  but  this  is  where  I  show  you 
that  they  can't  fool  old  Jeff  all  the  time.  Johnny 
Walker's  going  to  be  hot  this  afternoon — hot  and 
a  hundred  to  one!" 

"Let  him  run,  Jeff  I  You're  not  going  to  bet  a 
nickel  if  I  take  you  there,  understand?  Not  one 
nickel!  We  go  everywhere  else,  but  no  betting 
ring." 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  General,  "I  won't  bet 
anything  all  afternoon,  but  remember  I'm  telling 
you  what  I  know.  Kid.  Old  Johnny's  going  to 
swing  around  that  turn  at  the  head  of  the  field. 
Yes,  sir,  you're  going  to  call  it  off  to  me  like  this : 

"Into  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  stretch — Johnny  Walker 
by  two  lengths/'* 

The  Kid  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"All  right,  Jeff,"  he  soothed,  "have  your  own 
way.  Lock  the  old  cart  up  and  we'll  head  for 
church." 

So  the  Information  Kid,  a  wandering  urchin 
from  a  little  hick  town,  and  old  General  Jeff,  a 
beribboned  derelict   from   nowhere,   visited   the 

lOI 


.   -RIDERS  UP! 


Tijuana  racetrack  that  afternoon,  the  former  dis- 
regarding a  hunch,  and  the  latter  obeying  one. 

Now  there  are  two  kinds  of  hunches  among 
gamblers.  One  is  prompted  purely  by  supersti- 
tion and  may  be  safely  ignored  by  wise  men.  The 
other  arises  from  a  strong  intuitive  impression 
that  a  certain  thing  will  happen,  and  this  second 
variety  of  hunch  is  not  Infrequently  a  mirror  dis- 
played by  the  hand-maiden  of  Destiny. 

But  the  Information  Kid  saw  no  reason  for 
uneasiness.  His  Inside  coat  pocket  was  securely 
fastened;  his  shrewd  gray  eyes  were  wide  open; 
and  he  knew  that  by  nightfall  he  would  be  back- 
tracking on  the  homeward  trail. 

*Tat  chance  anybody's  got  to  sic'  me  on  to  a 
good  thing,"  he  assured  himself.  "President  of 
the  Nickel-Nursers'  Protective  Association, — 
that's  me  to-day!" 

They  boarded  an  automobile  stage,  and  were 
soon  whizzing  along  the  sixteen  mile  highway 
that  connects  San  Diego  with  the  Mexican 
frontier.  The  Information  Kid  had  made  this 
trip  a  hundred  times  or  more,  nearly  always  with 
a  dog-eared  dope  book  on  his  knees,  and  his  fac- 
ulties concentrated  on  the  task  of  translating  the 
overnight  entries  Into  terms  of  past  performances 
and  probable  results.  Now  he  leaned  back  with 
an  easy  mind,  and  permitted  his  eyes  to  dwell 

I02 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


upon  the  unfolding  landscape.  He  experienced 
much  the  same  sensation  as  a  megaphone  manip- 
ulator in  a  sightseeing  bus,  for,  in  all  truth,  this 
was  a  personally  conducted  excursion  with  old 
General  Jeff  as  the  party  of  the  second  part. 
Realizing  this,  the  Kid  promptly  made  his  debut 
as  a  spieler,  nudging  his  companion's  arm: 

"Swell  scenery,  Jeff — all  this  green  stuff  on 
either  side  is  vegetables — there's  miles  of  it.  Off 
toward  the  hills  there's  some  orchards — lemons 
and  oranges,  green  and  yellow — and  the  ground's 
a  kind  of  chocolate.  By  golly,  Jeff,  come  to  think 
of  it,  you  can  pick  out  the  colors  of  every  stable 
by  just  looking  around.  Yep,  there's  the  Yosem- 
ite  green  and  gold,  and  this  bus  is  cherry — old 
man  Jackson's  brand — and  the  hills  are  a  kind 
of  purple " 

"Maybe  they're  lavender,"  the  General  sug- 
gested. "Lavender  is  Billy  Tassel's  silk,  ain't  it? 
The  boy  on  Johnny  Walker  will  be  sporting  lav- 
ender—you want  to  keep  your  eyes  on  that,  Kid. 
Are  the  hills  big?" 

"Ye-ah,  mountains;  Mexican  range,  I  guess.'* 

"Higher  than  anything  else  around  here?'* 

"Sure." 

The  General  sighed  contentedly. 

"That  means  Johnny  Walker's  going  to  finish 
on  top." 

103 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  Kid  could  have  pointed  out  that  the  pur- 
ple-topped peaks  in  the  distance  formed  also  the 
last  entry  in  the  color  scheme,  but  he  held  his 
peace. 

They  swished  through  Chula  Vista,  San  Ysidro 
and  the  clump  of  buildings  that  represented  Ti- 
juana, the  last  settlement  which  labored  under 
the  restraining  influence  of  American  law.  Across 
the  border  lay  Tijuana,  "Aunt  Jane's"  muddy  and 
disreputable  half-sister — a  splatter  of  frame  and 
'dobe  structures  where  American  gamblers  indus- 
triously entertained  visitors  and  relieved  them 
of  excess  wealth.  The  house  percentage  at  Ti- 
juana is  necessarily  large,  because  the  authorities 
of  the  district  have  decreed  that  the  army  must 
be  equipped  with  red  pantaloons  and  shoes,  so 
back  of  the  town  there  is  a  cdrcel  where  .  .  .  but 
no  matter  I 

The  stage  swung  across  the  line,  and  paused 
long  enough  for  a  gentlemanly  uniformed  bandit 
to  exact  the  customary  passport  fee. 

*Tive  thousand  passports  a  day  in  a  128-day 
meeting,"  commented  the  Kid,  as  he  parted  with 
his  dollar — "I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed  world  that's  a 
Mexican  percentage.  Hombre,  you  have  my  best 
regards,  and  good-BYE!" 

"Adios,  amigo!"  grinned  the  other. 

The  stage  lurched  ahead  in  a  figure  S,  and  then 
104 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


swung  off  to  the  left  toward  the  green  and  white 
buildings  quivering  in  the  noon-day  heat.  The 
road  was  choked  with  pleasure  cars.  Long  lines 
of  blanketed  horses  were  moving  toward  railroad 
sidings,  where  strings  of  box  cars  awaited  them. 
Everything  was  colorful  confusion.  For  this  was 
Get-Away-Day — the  parting  performance  by  the 
bangtails — Tijuana's  last  call  to  the  feed-trough 
— the  day  when  every  trainer  has  something  up 
his  sleeve  in  addition  to  his  arm,  and  when  the 
faithful  whisper  to  one  another  in  brotherly  con- 
fidence : 

^'Remember,  now — this  dog  will  tiptoe  from 
wire  to  wire.  All  you  have  to  do  is  lay  your 
money  down  and  then  line  up  at  the  counter.  Go 
get  yours,  man,  go  get  it/'* 

Inside  the  gates,  the  Information  Kid  took  firm 
hold  of  the  General's  arm. 

"This  way,"  he  directed,  heading  toward  the 
grandstand.  'We  can  get  an  eyeful  from  up- 
stairs, and  I  don't  want  to  be  within  hailing  dis- 
tance of  the  common  enemy.  Here's  one  time 
when  I  don't  want  to  fall  into  no  fishpond  and  get 
hooked." 

''That's  right,"  Jeff  agreed,  "all  we  want  to 
do  is  watch  Johnny  Walker  come  around  that 
turn.  I  just  want  to  see  old  Johnny  come  march- 
ing home " 

105 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  Kid  grunted.  "All  I  care  about  is  seeing 
that  nobody  puts  the  old  oofty-goof  on  my  twen- 
ty-five hundred  berries." 

They  skirted  the  betting  ring  and  made  for  the 
staircase,  but  the  Kid's  familiar  figure  was  recog- 
nized by  half  a  dozen  of  his  patrons.  Bryce 
Deckleman,  who  ran  a  drugstore  in  San  Diego, 
blocked  their  passage.  In  one  hand  he  held 
"Jockey  Mason's"  selections. 

"Who  do  you  like  in  the  third  race,  Kid?"  he 
questioned.     "I — I " 

"You  have  the  answer  in  your  lily  white  mitt," 
snapped  the  Kid.     "Go  'way  from  me!" 

Half-way  up  the  stairs,  Noisy  Ned,  a  free-lance 
hustler,  overtook  them  and  buttonholed  the  Gen- 
eral's guide. 

"What  d'ye  hear.  Kid?    What  d'ye  hear?" 

The  Kid  freed  himself  none  too  gently.  "I 
don't  hear  nothing  but  'Home,  Sweet  Home.' 
Bust  away!     Bust  away!" 

Noisy  Ned's  eyes  narrowed.  He  suspected  the 
Kid  was  holding  out  on  him. 

"If  you  knew  who  just  gave  me  an  earful,"  he 
tempted,  "you'd  be  following  me  around  with 
candy.    This  sleeper  will  be  a  hundred " 

"Say,  if  I  follow  you  around  it  will  be  with  a 
gat.  Ain't  your  ears  clean  this  afternoon,  or  how 
come?    Beat  it,  I  tell  you,  beat  itT* 

io6 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


The  General  clutched  his  friend's  arms,  and 
whispered: 

"He  meant  Johnny  Walker.  He  said  a  hun- 
dred to  one.     I  told  you  I  could  pick  'em!" 

The  Kid  grinned.  "Ye-ah,  Jeff — this  is  your 
day,  sure  enough.  A  guy  can  always  pick  'em 
when  he  ain't  betting." 

The  pair  edged  their  way  along  the  first  row 
of  benches  In  the  grandstand  until  they  came  to 
the  east  railing,  where  no  one  could  obstruct  the 
view.  Then  the  Kid  left  his  companion  for  a 
moment.  When  he  returned,  he  had  a  pair  of 
field  glasses. 

"Got  to  do  the  thing  up  right  If  I'm  going  to 
call  'em,"  he  explained.  "Want  to  try  to  pick 
the  winner  in  the  first,  Jeff?  It's  a  maiden 
scramble  for  two-year-olds." 

The  General  shook  his  head.  "Seems  like  I 
can't  think  of  anything  but  Johnny  Walker  as  a 
winner.  I  want  that  race  just  like  you  was  mak- 
ing up  the  official  form  chart,  Kid.  The  others 
you  can  kind  of  practice  up  on,  how's  that?" 

"Fair  enough,  Jeff.  It  don't  look  like  much  of 
a  card,  though — large  fields,  green  Mexican 
jocks,  and  bad  acting  horses.  The  best  stables 
are  gone." 

He  busied  himself  describing  the  crowd,  Iden- 


107 


RIDERS  UP! 


tifying  the  various  judges  and  timers,  and  pictur- 
ing to  the  General  odd  characters  of  a  type  to  be 
found  on  every  race  track.  The  Information  Kid 
was  in  his  element  at  this  sort  of  thing.  No  artist 
ever  imbibed  more  atmosphere  in  less  time  than 
old  Jeff  absorbed  from  his  companion  and  stored 
up  for  use  in  Miramar  home,  where  they  changed 
the  sheets  twice  a  week  and  served  ice  cream  on 
Sundays. 

The  bugle  called  the  first  field  to  the  post,  and 
the  Kid  translated  the  numbers  as  the  entries  filed 
past.  A  brief  delay  at  the  barrier — surprisingly 
brief  for  maidens — and  they  were  off. 

"Wake  Robin  gets  the  call,"  reported  the  Kid, 
"that  thing  of  Felton's  second.  Cotton  Queen 
third.  .  .  .  Into  the  stretch,  same  way — Kitty 
Marsh  closing  up  on  the  outside.  .  .  .  Here  they 
come,  Jeff.  .  .  .  Four  of  them  driving.  .  .  . 
Wear  'em  down,  Kitty,  you're  the  gamest.  .  .  . 
Yah,  yah,  yah!  .  .  .  What  did  I  tell  you?  Nice 
little  filly.  .  .  .  Kitty  Marsh  a  length  and  going 
away,  Wake  Robin  second.  Cotton  Queen  third. 
.  .  .  Here's  the  time — 36  3-5.  Not  so  bad  for 
three  furlongs  on  this  track,  not  so — had!** 

Old  General  Jeff  moved  restlessly.  "John- 
ny  " 

"Lots  of  time,"  soothed  the  Kid.  ^'Johnny 
108 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


ain't  scheduled  to  do  his  high  dive  until  the  sev- 
enth race.  They're  ashamed  to  trot  him  out  in 
full  daylight." 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Contrary  to  general 
expectation,  the  horses  ran  fairly  well  to  form, 
and  the  "sharpshooters"  were  getting  the  worst 
of  it.  One  after  another  good  things  failed  to 
materialize,  and  public  choices  romped  home  in 
front. 

"The  stewards  are  on  the  job,"  opined  the  Kid. 
*T11  bet  they  read  the  riot  act  to  some  of  these 
owners  this  morning.  That  fifth  race  was  sup- 
posed to  be  pickings  for  old  man  Barlow,  but  you 
noticed  they  switched  jockeys  on  the  favorite,  and 
his  filly  didn't  get  in  the  money.  Put  it  down 
that  he's  off  somewheres  in  a  corner  crying.  Jeff, 
you  and  me  are  the  only  wise  guys  out  here  this 
afternoon." 

The  General  clawed  again  at  his  sideburns. 
"Johnny  Walker " 

"Lord  God,  Jeff  I  Can't  you  think  of  nothing 
else?  Here  Tm  trying  to  give  you  a  good  time, 
and  all  you're  doing  is  raving  about  a  gopher. 
That  thing  don't  run — he  just  digs  himself  into 
the  ground  and  disappears." 

"He's  going  to  swing  around  that  turn,"  in- 
sisted the  other;  "he's  going  to  come  marching 
home." 

109 


RIDERS  UP! 


"Oh,  all  right,"  agreed  the  Kid,  "all— right!" 

And  finally,  a  bugle,  sounding  "taps,"  called  the 
last  field  of  the  season  to  the  post. 

"Now,"  pleaded  old  General  Jeff,  "give  me 
everything,  Kid,  I  want  to  see.^^ 

Obediently,  the  Information  Kid  leveled  his 
glasses. 

"Six  furlongs,  claiming,"  he  reported,  "field  of 
six  starters.  Post  numbers.  Williams  on  Sand- 
town,  number  one;  E.  Scott  on  Sea  Wave,  two; 
Captain  Ace  with  Froggie  up,  three ;  Peach  King, 
Dugan,  number  four;  Johnny  Walker " 

"Ah!"  said  Jeff,  "who?" 

"Wilson,  coon  boy,  ninety-eight  pounds,  good 
kid  but  weak  arms.  Candle  Flame,  number  six, 
McCarthy  up.     Others  scratched." 

The  Kid  hailed  an  usher.  "Price  on  Johnny 
Walker?"  he  inquired. 

"Write  your  own  ticket,  hundred  to  one  in  the 
books  last  I  heard — anything  doing,  Kid?" 

"Not  with  me  there  ain't." 

"Where  are  they  now?"  prompted  the  Gen- 
eral. 

The  Kid  raised  his  glasses  again. 

"Going  to  the  post.  Say,  Jeff,"  he  added 
quickly,  "I  believe  you  called  the  turn  at  that! 
Johnny  Walker's  full  of  run,  he's  soaping;  they've 

no 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


got  him  crazy  with  hop.  What  d'ye  know  about 
that?" 

"I  told  you,"  said  the  General  simply — "I  just 
knew  he'd  win  to-day — a  hundred  to  one!" 

"Keep  your  shirt  on,  Jeff — I've  seen  that  sort 
of  thing  go  wrong  a  hundred  times.  Now  they're 
at  the  barrier.  Johnny's  raising  hell.  There  he 
goes — busting  the  webbing.  The  boy  can't  hold 
him.     He'll  run  his  race  right  there!" 

"I  wish  I  could  seCy^  whispered  the  General. 
"I  wish  I  could  see.    Who's  the  starter?" 

"Hurley — a  good  man,  too — never  uses  the 
whip  even  on  a  bad  actor.  But  I'll  bet  he's  lay- 
ing the  law  down  to  them.  I  know  just  about  what 
he's  saying;  'Swing  that  damn  goat  Into  place,' 
he's  telling  'em,  'Wilson,  who  taught  you  how  to 
ride?  Come  over  here  with  that  rail  horse.  .  .  . 
Dugan,  I'll  remember  you  for  that!  Don't  tell 
me  you're  crowded.  .  .  .  Get  back  where  you 
belong.  Gtt  out  of  that  tangle,  get  out  of  It! 
No,  no,  NO!  Now  try  It  all  over  again.  Hold 
It,  Williams — hold  It —  Number  five  horse  come 
up  on  the  outside  easy  .  .  .  that's  right  .  .  . 
look  sharp,  Froggle  .  .  .  now  swing  number 
three  .  .  .  swing  him.  .  .  .  You\e  of!  Get 
away,  get  away,  get  away!'* 

A  burst  of  color  at  the  near  turn^— a  hysterical 
III 


RIDERS  UP! 


gasp  from  General  Jeff,  and  the  Kid's  high  sing- 
song, crying: 

"John-ny  Walk-er  in  the  lead.  .  .  .  Captain 
Ace,  Sea  Wave,  Sandtown,  Peach  King,  and 
Candle  Flame.   .   .   ." 

A  splash  of  lavender  sky-rocketed  down  the 
back  stretch  amid  a  roar  of  wonder  from  the 
stands. 

The  Kid's  shrill  voice  rose  above  the  clamor. 

"At  the  half^ — Johnny  by  three  lengths.  Captain 
Ace  second  by  two.  Sea  Wave  third,  and  Peach 
King  hanging  on.  Candle  Flame  stopping 
badly." 

Old  General  Jeff  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
stared  across  the  white-washed  circle,  but  he 
could  not  see. 

"At  the  three-quarters.  Johnny  by  five 
lengths.   .  .  ." 

A  sightless  old  man  in  the  front  row  of  the 
stands  waved  both  arms  in  the  air. 

"Johnny  Walker!"  he  babbled.  "Johnny 
Walker!  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  the  air  was  rent  with  exultant  yells — 
a  brand-new  note  of  triumphant  derision. 

"Into  the  stretch,  Johnny  Walker  by  a  length 
and  quitting  fast,"  droned  the  Kid,  "Captain  Ace 
nails  him.  It's  all  off,  Jeff — Johnny's 
through.  .  . 

112 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


The  General's  wrinkled  hands  clawed  at  the 
Kid's  shoulders.  His  face  was  livid.  "No,  no — 
no  I"  he  pleaded,  "don't  tell  me  that.  Kid — I've 
just  lived  for  this.  Johnny's  ^ot  to  win — he's  just 
got — "     The  General  choked. 

The  Information  Kid  hesitated  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  eyes  slanting  at  the  pitiful  figure  by 
his  side.  Then  he  looked  again  at  the  on-rushing 
field.  The  Kid  was  a  sport.  He  jammed  the 
glasses  into  their  case,  and  jerked  off  his  cap. 

"By  God — Jeff  I"  he  yelled,  "he's  coming  again, 
Johnny  Walker's  driving  again.  He's  got  Cap- 
tain Ace  as  sure  as  hell.     He's  shaking  him  off  I" 

Down  the  tan  stretch  thundered  the  pack,  one 
horse  bursting  ahead.  A  slim  figure  In  a  checked 
suit  leaned  over  the  railing;  his  voice  drowned  out 
the  babel  that  rose  from  below,  and  all  Tijuana 
learned  that  day  how  the  Information  Kid  could 
root. 

"Here  he  comes,  Jeff — just  like  you  said — he's 
marching  home !  Come  on,  you  Johnny  1  Come 
on,  you  boy  I  One  length,  two  lengths,  three! 
Johnny  Walker  .  .  .  Johnny  Walker  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  a  show!    All  by  himself  .   .  ." 

"Johnny  Walker!"  shrieked  the  General,  "a 
hundred  to  one!  Oh  7ny  God! — Johnny  Walker  1" 

A  thunder  of  hoofs  past  the  stand,  a  blast  of 
113 


RIDERS  UP! 


cheers  from  the  crowd,  and  the  Information  Kid 
bawling  at  the  top  of  his  lungs : 

"Johnny  Walker  by  fve  lengths  I  Johnny 
Walker,  Johnny  Walker,  Johnny  Walk- 
ERl  .   .   ." 

He  dropped  back  exhausted,  flipped  a  silk 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  mopped  his  face, 
and  turned  to  grin  at  General  Jeff. 

The  old  newsdealer  stood,  a  mute  moment, 
with  his  face  transfigured.  Then  he  fumbled  in 
his  inside  pocket,  and  produced  a  clump  of  card- 
boards. 

"I  had  him  right  on  the  nose.  Kid.  Twenty-five 
hundred  dollars  for  old  Jeff,  so's  he  can  get  into 
Miramar  home  I  Couldn't  have  made  it  in  no 
other  way !  Twenty-five  dollars  was  every  penny 
I  had.  .  .  .    Ain't  God  good?" 

The  Information  Kid  was  paralyzed. 

"W — what,"  he  stammered,  "what's  that? 
Let  me  see  them  tickets." 

He  snatched  at  the  square  pasteboards  and  saw 
that  they  bore  the  mark  of  an  uptown  poolroom, 
and  all  told  they  called  for  a  hundred  to  one  on 
Johnny  Walker,  twenty-five  times! 

"I  couldn't  have  saved  no  pile  like  that,"  ex- 
plained the  General,  "you  ought  to  have  guessed 
that,  Kid.  I  just  made  arrangements  because  I 
knew  old  Johnny  was  going  to  come  marching 

114 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


home  to-day — I  just  felt  it.  Why,  what's  the 
matter,  Kid?"  His  voice  trembled  and  he  pawed 
beseechingly  at  his  companion.  "There's  no 
mistake,  is  there  Kid?  They  wouldn't  gyp  old 
Jeff  out  of  a  home,  nobody  would  do  that!  They 
say  Johnny  Walker,  all  right,  don't  they,  Kid? 
They  call  for  twenty-five  hundred,  don't  they? 
It's  going  to  take  every  cent.  .  .  .  Kid,  what's 
the  matter?" 

The  Information  Kid  blinked  down  at  the  win- 
ner's circle,  where  a  little  hunchback  with  a  pale 
face  was  holding  up  his  whip  for  permission  to 
dismount  from  Captain  Ace.  But  the  imagina- 
tion plays  queer  tricks  once  in  a  while.  The  Kid 
visioned  only  a  little  jay  street  in  a  little  hick 
town,  and  a  faded  figure  waiting  by  the  gate.  .  .  . 

A  low  moan  from  General  Jeff  brought  him  to 
himself,  and  the  hustler  stared  at  his  old  pal,  and 
then  down  at  the  pasteboards.   .   .  . 

"It's  all  right,  Jeff,"  he  assured,  "I  was  just 
knocked  silly  for  a  moment.  The  tickets  are  jake 
— they're  good  as  gold,  and  you  got  the  luck  of 
a  graveyard  rabbit.    You  come  with  me." 

For  reasons  of  his  own,  the  Kid  elected  to  take 
his  companion  home  after  the  crowd  had  gone, 
and  then  only  in  a  machine  where  they  could  have 
the  rear  seat  to  themselves.  In  San  Diego,  old 
Jeff  waited  outside  on  the  sidewalk  while  his  guide 

115 


RIDERS  UP! 


entered  the  Harper  Brothers  poolroom  and  came 
back  a  few  minutes  later  with  a  roll  of  currency 
in  his  hand. 

"There  you  are,  Jeff — I  counted  it  twice — and 
it's  O.  K.  Now  let's  do  the  thing  up  right.  Pll 
get  a  taxi  and  we  can  go  out  to  your  place  and  get 
your  things  and  then  I'll  take  you  up  to  that 
home " 

"That's  it,"  enthused  the  General,  "I  want  you 
to  see  it.  Kid.  I'll  be  living  pretty  swell  for  old 
Jeff.     They  change  the " 

"Ye-ah,  I  know,"  said  the  Kid.  "Let's  get 
started." 

And  on  the  way  old  Jeff  indulged  in  a  little 
quiet  gloating. 

"I  just  knew  I'd  finish  ahead  of  the  game,"  he 
confided,  "but  there  ain't  many  can  do  it.  If  I 
was  you.  Kid,  I'd  go  right  home,  and  let  the  track 
alone.  You  got  a  chance  to  make  a  nice  start  In 
some  business.  Me — all  I  can  do  now  is  just 
remember  how  old  Johnny  come  marching  home. 
The  way  you  talked.  Kid,  I  could  just  see,  I  bet 
I'll  make  some  of  those  other  fellows  listen  to  me 
when  I  tell  'em " 

"I  wouldn't  say  nothing  about  it,  Jeff. 
I  wouldn't  let  anybody  know  nothing  about  John- 
ny Walker;  just  let  people  think  you  saved  the 
money  up.    People  will  think  more  of  you.    Some 

ii6 


JOHNNY  COMES  HOME 


folks  are  set  against  betting.  I  wouldn't  give 
them  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  you're  up  there 
just  as  the  result  of  a  bet." 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  nodded  the  General. 
"Guess  I'd  better  not  say  too  much  about  any 
one  race  in  particular." 

They  entered  the  broad  drive  of  Miramar 
Home,  brushed  past  red  geraniums,  and  found 
themselves  in  the  final  port  of  call  for  old  Gen- 
eral Jeff. 

After  they  had  toured  the  building,  and  the  Kid 
had  supervised  the  installation  of  his  friend's  few 
possessions  in  the  little  room  on  the  top  floor,  he 
held  out  his  hand  gravely. 

"Good-by,  old  scout." 

Old  General  Jeff  was  Inclined  to  snIfHe  a  little 
bit.  "Good-by,  Kid — you  been  mighty  kind  to 
an  old  man  to-day.  Maybe  I'll  never  see  you 
again,  but  I  won't  forget  you,  boy — always  think 
of  you.  Remember  what  I  said.  Kid — ^you  go  on 
home  now  and  enjoy  yourself.     Good-by,  Kid." 

"Good  luck,  old  timer — and  you  have  my  best 
regards!   ..." 

The  Kid  boarded  a  street  car  and  alighted  in 
the  downtown  district.  He  hesitated  on  the  curb- 
ing a  moment,  and  then  made  his  way  to  the 
establishment  of  Abe  Goldwater,  a  business  ac- 
quaintance of  long  standing.     When  he  emerged 

117 


RIDERS  UP! 


he  was  minus  the  sparkler  In  his  plutocratic  purple 
tie.  His  fingers  fumbled  mechanically  in  coat 
pockets  and  encountered  two  open  safety  pins. 
He  grinned,  and  tossed  them  in  the  gutter. 

On  the  opposite  corner  stood  the  drugstore 
maintained  by  Billy  McLaughlin.  Prompted  by 
the  condition  of  his  vocal  cords,  the  Kid  crossed 
the  street. 

"Why,  hello.  Kid,"  said  the  proprietor.  "Who 
won  the  last  race?    I  had  to  leave  early." 

The  Kid  shrugged.  "I  dunno — I  was  watching 
Johnny  Walker." 

"Johnny  Walker?    Where  did  he  finish?" 

The  Information  Kid  eyed  with  mild  Interest 
a  package  of  ant  exterminator. 

"Finish?"  he  echoed,  ''finish?  Why,  those  kind 
of  dogs  aren't  supposed  to  finish,  are  they?  The 
last  I  saw  of  Johnny  Walker  he  was  making  a 
swell  attempt  to  run  backwards,  and  I  guess  he's 
still  doing  it!  .  .  .  Say,  Mac,  what's  good  for  a 
sore  throat?" 


V.     THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

MAJOR  ROBERT  ARLINGTON,  of 
Fairfax  County,  raced  his  horses  "fo' 
the  hono'  of  the  stable  and  the  glo'y  of 
Vi'ginia,  suh!"  They  were  distance  horses, 
mostly  of  the  Gloriana  strain,  and  they  liked  to 
come  bobbing  into  the  stretch  in  about  third  place, 
one  position  out  from  the  rail,  and  five  or  six 
lengths  behind  the  leaders. 

It  was  Major  Bob's  supreme  pleasure  to  stand 
very  erect  in  the  clubhouse  gallery,  glasses  on  the 
advancing  field,  and  watch  his  colors  come  from 
behind — to  see  his  horses  eat  up  the  intervening 
gap  and  then  fight  It  out  for  the  wire  in  a  nose- 
and-nose  finish  such  as  the  judges  hate. 

As  far  back  as  any  one  could  remember,  there 
had  always  been  an  Arlington  entry  in  the  Christ- 
mas Handicap  at  New  Orleans;  and  every  unat- 
tached jockey,  every  dusky  rubber,  every  knight 
of  the  rag,  considered  it  his  bounden  duty  to  sup- 
port that  entry.  As  soon  as  the  first  horse  shoved 
its  nose  around  the  turn,  the  paddock  contingent 
jammed  against  the  railing  and  gave  tongue. 

119 


RIDERS  UP 


"Come  on,  you  Major  Bob!"  "Oh,  you  Santa 
Claus!"  "Oh,  you  Christmas  dinner!"  "Come 
on,  you  Virginia!"  "Come  on — come  on — come 
on!" 

A  heart-smothering  finish,  with  little  Suther- 
land outriding  the  pack,  and  then  Major  Bob 
would  saunter  from  the  winner's  circle  back  to 
the  clubhouse  oasis,  where  he  could  rest  a  highly 
polished  boot  on  a  brass  railing,  acknowledge  con- 
gratulations, and  listen  to  the  inevitable:  "Major, 
won't  you  join  us?" 

Such  invitation  always  prompted  the  Major 
to  press  his  broad-brimmed  black  hat  a  little  more 
firmly  over  white  hair,  transfer  his  cane  from 
right  hand  to  the  crook  of  the  left  arm,  and  reply: 

"Don't  ca'  if  I  do,  suh!" 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  Christmas  dinner  at 
the  old  Cosmopolitan,  just  opposite  the  Sazerac, 
or  at  La  Loulslenne,  where  M'sleur  Jules  pre- 
sided, and  every  one  of  the  hundred-odd  jockeys, 
stable  boys  and  swipes,  found  a  five-dollar  bill  un- 
der his  plate 

The  dinner  was  served  In  Southern  style  with 
Virginia  ham  coated  with  molasses  and  pepper 
and  baked  in  wine,  suckling  pig,  turkey,  and  can- 
died yams.  Lastly  there  was  always  an  enormous 
lighted  plum-pudding  with  a  sprig  of  holly,  and 
then  Major  Bob  arose  for  the  toast. 

120 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

'T'all  happy  down  the'?" 

The  afErmation  came  in  a  yell,  knives  and 
forks  banging. 

"Y'all  a-goin'  to  be  heah  next  yeah?" 

Again  the  chorus  and  the  clatter. 

Then  the  toast,  Major  Bob's  voice  ringing 
clear  and  vibrant: 

"Mo'  sensitive  than  a  woman,  mo'  cou'ageous 
than  a  man — the  tho'oughbred,  suh — God  and 
Vi'ginia!" 

Oh,  he  was  a  type !  A  motion-picture  director 
would  have  wept  for  joy  at  beholding  him.  Very 
tall  and  very  erect,  a  white  carnation  at  his  but- 
tonhole, a  pre-war  mustache  and  a  dab  of  white 
on  the  chin.  After  the  manner  of  all  Arlingtons, 
he  honored  a  woman,  worshiped  a  horse,  doted 
on  Virginia  twist  and  mint  julep — the  latter  un- 
spoiled by  a  straw. 

Time,  the  relentless  shearer,  deprived  Major 
Bob  of  many  things.  The  heyday  of  glory  and 
romance  passed  from  the  race  tracks  of  the  coun- 
try, leaving  but  an  afterglow;  New  Orleans  laid 
sacrilegious  sewers  In  th-e  Vieux  Carre;  the 
Eighteenth  Amendment  made  an  ice-cream  parlor 
out  of  Henri's  Petit  Place  on  Iberville  Street; 
one  after  another  of  his  intimate  associates  passed 
on — and    there    remained    only    the    Christmas 

121 


RIDERS  UP! 


Handicap  and  Christmas  "paddock  dinner,"  by 
which  to  perpetuate  tradition. 

The  Major  grew  a  little  thinner  and  a  little 
straighter,  and  finally  he  sold  his  last  stake- 
horse,  Rapidan,  in  order  that  he  might  still  play 
the  princely  host  on  Christmas  Day. 

He  was  then  reduced  to  a  single  colt,  a  mag- 
nificent youngster,  the  first  son  of  Rappahannock, 
out  of  the  great  mare  Heart  o'  Virginia.  The 
Major  named  him  Charlestown  and  turned  down 
an  offer  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  before  the 
youngster  had  even  faced  the  barrier. 

"A  tho'oughbred  after  my  own  heart,  suh,"  he 
said,  "a  colt  that  is  of  the  family;  as  well  ask  me 
to  sell  my  own  son,  suh!" 

Charlestown  came  of  age  on  the  first  day  of 
the  year,  while  the  Major  was  at  Tijuana. 
Hustlers,  watching  the  early  morning  workouts, 
tabbed  the  colt  as  "the  sweetest  baby  that  ever 
looked  through  a  bridle." 

The  Information  Kid,  who  worked  for  "And 
You"  Mclvor,  and  who  knew  everything,  even  to 
a  recipe  for  brandy  that  would  make  a  jackrabbit 
spit  in  the  face  of  a  greyhound,  reported  his  con- 
clusions to  his  employer: 

"The  Major's  little  go-getter  is  primed  and 
cocked  for  the  question.  He'll  look  the  judges  in 
the  mug  on  the  first  start." 

122 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

The  morning  before  Charlestown  was  to  make 
his  debut  in  the  Juvenile  Stakes,  Major  Bob  vis- 
ited the  track  to  watch  the  workout.  And  during 
the  night  an  inquisitive  gopher  burrowed  under 
the  rail  of  the  back-stretch  so  that  when  Charles- 
town  came  breezing  along  with  a  little  colored 
boy  on  his  back,  the  colt's  left  forefoot  encoun- 
tered a  pile  of  soft  dirt  with  a  hole  underneath. 

The  Major  climbed  the  fence  and  cut  across 
the  center  field.  Rail-birds  and  dockers  fluttered 
in  the  same  direction.  They  converged  upon  a 
bay  colt  floundering  on  three  legs,  and  a  terrified 
little  negro  digging  heels  into  the  turf  and  cling- 
ing desperately  to  the  reins. 

*'0h,  mah  Gawd!"  chattered  the  child  of  the 
stable.  "He's  done  bus'  his  lalg  plumb  off.  .  .  . 
Whoa,  there!  .  .  .  Yessir,  MIsta'  Major.  .  .  . 
Oh,  mah  God,  de  bones  is  stickin'  right  out!" 

Major  Bob  took  firm  hold  of  the  bridle,  gave 
one  quick  glance  at  the  jagged  cannon-bone  pro- 
truding from  the  torn  flesh,  another  glance  at  the 
colt's  eyes,  large  with  exquisite  agony,  and  then 
wheeled  grimly  on  the  bystanders. 

A  man  in  a  gray  uniform  pushed  forward  in 
answer  to  the  look.  His  arm  went  to  a  back 
pocket  and  produced  an  automatic. 

*'No  hand  but  mine,"  interposed  the  Major. 
'Til  take  it,  suh!" 

123 


RIDERS  UP! 


He  coaxed  the  colt  gently  off  the  track  and  into 
an  alleyway  between  the  stables,  caressed  the  ani- 
mal a  moment,  and  then  raised  the  weapon.  .  .  . 

When  it  was  all  over,  the  Major  dusted  off 
his  coat  mechanically,  pocketed  the  automatic, 
straightened  his  shoulders  and  sauntered  off  be- 
hind one  of  the  barns. 

Fortunately,  the  Information  Kid  saw  the 
whole  thing,  and  he  knew  Major  Bob.  Down  the 
track,  the  Kid  made  out  *'And  You"  Mclvor,  the 
most  urbane  and  polished  bookmaker  who  ever 
graced  a  betting  ring.  Mclvor  and  the  Major 
were  friends  of  long  standing.  The  Kid  raced 
toward  the  bookmaker. 

"Quick,"  he  panted.  "Charlestown  broke  his 
leg,  and  the  Major  is  back  of  the  barn  with  a  gun ! 

Quickr 

The  bookmaker  sprinted  in  the  indicated  direc- 
tion. He  gained  the  corner  of  the  barn,  checked 
himself,  and  then  strolled  leisurely  to  meet  the 
owner  of  Charlestown. 

"Ah,  Major,"  he  greeted.  "Good  morning.  I 
just  heard  about  your  loss;  I  am  very  sorry." 

The  Major  had  taken  his  stand  under  a  tall 
cotton-wood.  One  hand  was  fumbling  at  his  coat- 
tails.  At  the  sound  of  Mclvor's  voice  he  turned 
calm  eyes  on  the  bookmaker. 

"A  ve'y  deplo'able  accident,  suh — deplo'able." 
124 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

Mclvor  nodded.  He  was  a  splendid  figure  of 
a  man,  very  handsome,  and  addicted  to  silk  shirts, 
Brazilian  diamonds,  and  a  demeanor  that  nothing 
could  ruffle. 

Once  at  Saratoga,  "Petroleum  Billy"  Smith, 
fresh  from  the  oil  fields,  had  rushed  up  to  Mclvor 
and  offered  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  on  a 
two-and-a-half-to-one  shot. 

"A  quarter  of  a  million  to  one  hundred  thou- 
sand," drawled  Mclvor.  "And  is  that  all?  Your 
ticket,  sir,  and  thank  you. — And  you?" 

That  broke  the  plunger's  nerve,  and  added 
another  picturesque  phrase  to  the  vocabulary  of 
the  race  track. 

And  You's  suave  voice  broke  the  silence : 

"Major,  I  have  a  claim  against  the  Toomey 
stable  for  the  pick  of  the  string,  and  I  value  your 
judgment  very  highly.  If  you  would  consider  a 
purely  business  proposition  from  an  old  friend,  I 
should  like  to  surrender  that  claim  to  you." 

The  Major's  face  reddened. 

"Suh!" 

"A  purely  business  proposition,"  pursued  Mc- 
lvor smoothly.  "I  cannot  run  the  horse  myself, 
Major,  and  you  can  pay  for  him  out  of  the  win- 
nings. It  would  be  a  terrible  blow  to  the  sport 
to  have  the  Virginia  colors  missing  from,  say,  the 
Christmas  Handicap,  Major!" 

125 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  muscles  on  the  Major's  cheeks  began  to 
twitch;  he  located  a  huge  bandanna  handkerchief, 
and  blew  his  nose  very  violently. 

*'Y'all  are  ve'y  kind,"  he  acknowledged.  *'I 
am  powe'fully  in  you'  debt,  suh!" 

Mclvor  linked  an  arm  in  that  of  the  Virginian. 

*'This  is  Mexico,"  he  reminded.  "Over  at  San 
Ysidro  there  is  a  bartender  from  the  St.  Charles 
whose  specialty  is  a  silver  fizz." 

"Suh,"  exclaimed  the  Major,  "you  ove'pow' 
me!" 

The  Information  Kid  grinned  as  he  saw  them 
vanish  through  the  gate.  The  next  day  he  made 
it  a  point  to  be  on  hand  when  the  Major  called 
at  the  Toomey  stables  and,  accompanied  by 
Trainer  Ted  Fuller,  walked  along  the  row  of 
white-washed  stalls.  The  Kid  trailed  along  at 
their  heels,  bent  upon  keeping  the  Major  from 
making  any  mistakes,  for  the  Toomey  horses 
were  known  principally  for  their  ability  to  read 
the  betting  odds  on  the  way  to  the  post. 

Fuller  tried  to  shoo  the  Kid  away,  but  the  lat- 
ter insisted  he  was  there  as  a  representative  of 
Mclvor.  He  had  something  pertinent  to  say 
about  every  horse  that  was  brought  out. 

"Thick-winded  and  been  tubed.  Major.  That 
one  gets  his  mail  at  the  sixth  hole.  .  .  .  Now, 
here's  what  I  call  a  shifty  baby — remember  Briar 

126 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

Rose  and  Secret  Silver?  Same  stable.  Take  my 
tip,  Major,  and  the  first  rattle  out  of  the  box  you 
can  hold  your  hat  up  to  the  gent  with  the  green- 
backs.    Mucho  diner 0  aquiT^ 

Finally  the  Major  turned  on  him. 

"Two  things  I  reckon  you  better  let  me  pick, 
suh — my  wife  and  my  ho'se." 

The  Information  Kid  temporarily  subsided. 

Up  and  down  the  tanbark  lanes  marched  the 
Major,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  study  with 
the  eyes  of  a  connoisseur  some  satin-coated  son  or 
daughter  of  the  turf.  When  he  found  a  colt  or 
filly  whose  lines  pleased  him,  he  coaxed  the  ani- 
mal to  the  open  half-door  of  the  stall,  ran  a  hand 
winningly  across  the  forehead,  and  then  looked 
Intently  at  the  eyes. 

Once  It  seemed  as  though  he  was  about  to  make 
his  selection  in  King  William,  a  four-year-old 
chestnut,  by  Prince  of  Orange  out  of  Cardinella, 
and  winner  of  the  Baja  California  Stakes.  The 
Major  had  seen  the  bay  stallion  finish  in  front 
many  times;  also  he  had  seen  him  beaten  once  by 
Sunproof,  the  Kentucky  crack.  He  studied  the 
horse  a  long  time,  ejected  a  thin  stream  of  dark 
juice  at  meditative  Intervals,  and  finally  shook  his 
head. 

"Reckon  y'all  are  a-going  to  find  me  ha'd  to 
please,"  he  sighed. 

127 


RIDERS  UP! 


And  then  in  the  last  stall  he  came  across  a  big 
gray  gelding  peering  out  at  him. 

The  Major  stopped  in  his  tracks  and  his  eyes 
lighted.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "old  Chickahominy  I  I 
was  pow' fully  nea'  to  fo'gettin'  y'all  had  shipped 
him  down  hea'.     Oblige  me,  suh." 

The  Information  Kid  could  contain  himself  no 
longer. 

"Major,"  he  protested,  "that  mule  couldn't 
run  a  mile  downhill.  He's  one  day  older  than 
Adam!" 

The  Major  exploded.  He  was  very  sensitive 
on  the  subject  of  age. 

"Dammit,  suh,"  he  protested,  "a  tho'oughbred 
is  no  olde'  than  his  legs,  suh!" 

"That's  it,"  wailed  the  Kid;  "he  ain't  got  no 
legs;  he  saw  his  first  firing-iron  during  the  Civil 
War." 

"Shut  up,"  snarled  Ted  Fuller,  who  knew  by 
the  Major's  face  there  was  a  chance  of  unloading 
the  option  advantageously. 

"A  game  campaigner,  Major — nine  years  old, 
but  still  good  for  the  sprints.  His  knees  are 
scratched  up  a  bit,  but  he's  perfectly  sound  and 
will  pay  his  way.  Half  brother,  you  know,  to 
Shenandoah,  and  the  latter  shows  the  Gloriana 
strain.     Stout-hearted — not  a  showy  horse,  but  a 

good,  reliable^ " 

128 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

"Sausage,"  cut  In  the  Kid,  "and  sour  at  thatl 
Major,  let  me  wise  you :  Chickahominy  has  been 
running  on  the  merry-go-tracks  in  Canada  for 
three  years;  before  that,  he  was  in  the  SulHvan 
stables;  and  before  that  Milt  York,  Barney  Du- 
gan,  and  Billy  Callender  had  him " 

"And  befo'  that,  suh,"  said  the  Major  with 
quiet  dignity,  "I  had  the  bono' — the  ve'y  great 
bono' — of  owning  the  ho'se  myse'f !" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  Kid,  and  gave  it  up. 

Chickahomlny's  ears  were  short  and  set  well 
to  the  front,  his  face  slightly  concave,  dipping 
between  the  eyes  and  nostrils;  a  lean  jaw  sug- 
gested Arab  blood.  The  Major  grasped  the 
lower  lip  and  found  it  firm;  he  passed  a  hand  over 
the  eyes  where  age  leaves  its  telltale  hollows,  and 
deftly  gauged  the  depressions.  Then  he  stepped 
back,  as  a  man  does  who  is  viewing  a  work  of  art, 
and  permitted  his  eyes  to  take  in  slowly  the  iron- 
gray  line  that  undulated  from  the  head,  dipped 
slightly  in  front  of  the  withers,  curved  and  rising 
a  little  along  the  back,  swelled  boldly  over  loins 
and  quarters,  dipping  again  into  the  flowing  lines 
of  the  tail. 

Next  he  turned  his  attention  to  Chickahomlny's 
legs,  running  his  hand  over  the  scarred  knees  and 
the  tendons  seared  by  the  firing-Iron.  One  after 
another  he  picked  up  the  hoofs,  studied  them,  and 

129 


RIDERS  UP! 


released  his  hold.  There  Is  an  old  saying  among 
horsemen:  "The  finer  the  hair,  the  firmer  the 
hoof."     Chlckahomlny's  legs  were  silken. 

Finally,  Major  Bob  straightened  up  and  laid 
a  firm  hand  on  the  halter. 

"Would  y'all  obhge  me  by  kickin'  that  bucket 
theah?"  he  drawled. 

Fuller  looked  puzzled,  but  a  moment  later  a 
galvanized  bucket  banged  against  a  post  and  clat- 
tered ojff  to  one  side. 

Chlckahomlny  pulled  back,  one  ear  reversed, 
the  other  forward,  eyes  rolled  back  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  strange  noise.  The  Major  caught  the 
flame  of  the  ruby  In  the  eyeballs.  It  was  what  he 
had  been  looking  for. 

"The  eye  of  the  tho'oughbred,  suh,  Is  the  win- 
dow of  the  soul;  reckon  I'll  jes'  lead  the  winner 
of  the  nex'  Christmas  Handicap  to  my  stable, 
suh!" 

A  sound  as  of  escaping  steam  came  from  the 
Information  Kid. 

"Dammit,  suh,"  exclaimed  the  Major,  "are 
you  trying  to  make  me  lose  my  tempah?" 

"Don't  mind  him,  Major,"  soothed  Ted  Fuller. 
"You've  got  a  good  horse — only  I  warn  you  that 
I  may  go  after  the  Handicap  myself;  it  will  be  a 
twenty-thousand-dollar  event  next  year." 

He  could  not  resist  his  little  joke.  "No  offense, 
130 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

Major,  but  now  that  you've  made  your  selection 
I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  let  King  William  show 
old  Chickahominy  the  way  to  the  wire  next 
Christmas." 

"In  that  case,  suh,"  replied  the  old  gentleman, 
"it  will  be  our  privilege — our  very  great  privilege, 
suh — to  see  a  ho'se  race!" 

The  Information  Kid  watched  Major  Bob  lead 
Chickahominy  away.  Then  he  hurried  with  his 
tale  of  woe  to  And  You  Mclvor. 

"Hoot-Owls  in  the  Major's  watchtowerl"  he 
wailed.  "Any  time  Chickahominy  finds  his  way 
to  the  pay-station  again,  they'll  have  to  put  Co- 
lumbus in  the  pilot-house!" 

Mclvor  frowned.  "Too  bad!"  he  said.  "I 
thought  of  course  he'd  take  King  William.  Well, 
funny  things  happen  on  a  race  track;  let  him 
alone.  Kid;  don't  worry  him." 

"Huh!"  grunted  the  Kid,  "/  should  care  if 
you  don't — only  there'll  be  a  lot  of  guys  missing 
the  old  feed-bag  next  Christmas,  and  I'll  be  one 
of  them.     Chickahominy- — this  way  out!" 

He  clutched  his  nose  with  one  hand,  a  coat 
lapel  with  the  other,  and  led  himself  mournfully 
away. 

Major  Bob  remained  as  debonair  and  courtly 
as  ever.  Afternoons  found  him  in  his  customary 
seat  at  the  track,  close  to  the  stairs.     In  the  even- 

131 


RIDERS  UP! 


ings  he  sat  in  the  lobby  of  the  Grant  Hotel  at 
San  Diego,  one  knee  crossed  over  the  other. 

His  friends  tactfully  forebore  to  mention  the 
big  gray  gelding  that  was  now  the  sole  defender 
of  colors,  once  the  proud  boast  of  Virginia.  They 
believed  that  it  was  the  only  horse  Major  Bob 
could  afford  to  secure.  Had  they  known  that 
he  had  been  given  the  pick  of  the  Toomey  stables 
they  would  have  been  quick  to  tell  him  that  Chick- 
ahominy  was  a  sullen,  worn-out  stall-warmer  who 
hadn't  won  a  handicap  event  in  years.  They 
would  have  begged  him  to  seek  redress  from  Ted 
Fuller.  With  pity  in  their  hearts  they  waited 
for  the  final  tragedy. 

But  get-away  day  came,  marking  the  close  of 
the  meeting,  and  the  children  of  the  whip  and 
spurs  departed  for  other  pastures  without  Chicka- 
hominy  having  been  once  called  to  the  barrier  in 
his  new  colors. 

On  the  third  day  after  the  bugle  had  sounded 
taps,  the  same  little  colored  boy  who  had  clung 
to  the  reins  of  the  injured  Charlestown  led 
Chickahominy,  in  traveling  wraps,  toward  a 
single  box-car  waiting  on  the  track  siding. 

The  Major  was  there  to  superintend  the  de- 
parture. 

^'Bubbles,  you  rascal,  y'all  a-going  to  be  com- 
fortable?'^ 

132 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

"Yassir,  Mister  Major;  me  an*  oV  Chick  is 
going  travel  jes'  like  a  oV  Pullman;  sure  got  a 
lot  o'  feed,  an'  beddin'." 

Chickahominy  entered  the  car  apathetically 
and  made  himself  at  home  in  the  bedded  stall 
over  the  front  of  which  a  sheet  was  draped  to 
keep  off  the  wind.  Box-cars  were  nothing  new 
to  him.  They  meant  merely  a  day  or  two  of 
jostling  and  swaying,  and  then  a  return  to  the 
routine  of  whip  and  spurs.  Other  horses  might 
be  turned  out  for  a  well-earned  rest,  but  old 
Chickahominy  had  of  late  been  owned  by  men 
who  made  him  earn  his  board  by  taking  second 
and  third  money  in  the  selling  races.  There  was 
a  time  when  traveling  clothes  in  the  early  spring 
would  have  meant  Kentucky  and  the  opening  at 
Lexington,  but  that  was  when  the  huge  gray  was 
in  his  prime.  Now  the  Montana  circuit  was  the 
probable  destination.  Chickahominy  munched 
sullenly  at  his  feed. 

But  when,  three  days  later,  the  box-car  came  to 
a  permanent  rest,  and  Bubbles,  opening  the  door 
at  a  platform,  cried  to  him,  "Here  we  is,  oV  meal- 
ticket — come  on  out  yeah  and  wahm  yo'se'f," 
Chickahominy  stepped  out  into  a  region  that  was 
neither  Montana,  Kentucky,  nor  Louisiana. 

"Dat's  right,  hawss,  look  around,"  encouraged 
133 


RIDERS  UP! 


Bubbles.     "Major  done  say  you  been  heah  befo\ 
See  does  yo'  remembah?" 

Chlckahomlny  stared  with  cocked  ears  at  a 
circle  of  blue-green  hills  splashed  with  poppies; 
his  nostrils  drank  in  pure  ozone,  tepid  and  vital- 
izing; his  shoulder-muscles  twitched  under  the 
caress  of  a  California  sun.  He  wrinkled  an  upper 
lip,  and  committed  himself  to  a  tentative  nicker. 
Bubbles  looked  up  at  the  station  sign  and 
spelled  out:  "Pleasanton — to  San  Francisco  41 
miles." 

"Sure  got  yeah  all  right,"  he  grunted.  "Won- 
dah  where  am  de  Major?" 

A  figure  in  a  broad  felt  hat  and  a  black  frock 
coat  turned  the  corner  of  the  road  and  sauntered 
forward. 

"Bubbles,  you  rascal!    Chickahominy,  suhl" 
The  little  negro  wriggled  with  joy  like  a  puppy. 
"Yassir,  Mister  Major,  sure  am  glad  to  see  you! 
When  does  we  eat?" 

"Eat,  you  scamp !  Do  y'all  think  that's  what  I 
brought  you  and  that  wuthless  ho'se  heah  fo'? 
Eat!     Why,  bless  my  soul!" 

Nevertheless  he  piloted  both  horse  and  boy  out 
to  the  old  Pleasanton  track,  consigned  the  grin- 
ning Bubbles  to  the  boss  of  the  exercise  crew,  and 
then  turned  old  Chickahominy  loose  in  a  blue-grass 
pasture  that  overlooked  the  circular  course. 

134 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

"Y'all  are  an  fu'lough,  suh,"  he  announced. 
"Six  yea's  ago,  suh,  y'all  went  from  this  heah 
spot  to  Eme'yville,  and  yo'  upheld  my  hono'  in 
the  Christmas  Handicap.  Don't  tell  me  you  don't 
remembah,  suh!  An  A'lington  ho'se  neva'  fo'- 
gets!" 

Chickahomlny  wandered  away,  seeking  appar- 
ently to  put  as  much  distance  between  himself  and 
his  owner  as  the  fences  would  permit. 

The  Major  walked  back  to  town  along  the 
shaded  country  road,  and  engaged  very  modest 
quarters  at  the  old  hotel  with  its  broad  veranda 
fronting  the  main  street — a  street  that  is  some- 
how more  suggestive  of  the  Old  Dominion  than 
of  the  new  El  Dorado. 

In  the  long  days  that  followed,  Major  Bob 
kept  pretty  much  to  himself.  In  the  early  morn- 
ings he  took  his  constitutional  walk  as  far  as  the 
station  and  back  again  and  then  devoted  himself 
to  the  morning  newspapers,  and  one  or  two  racing 
journals  which  came  to  him  by  mail.  Later  in 
the  day  force  of  habit  impelled  him  toward  the 
track  to  watch  the  work-outs,  mostly  of  harness 
horses,  "cold-blooded"  animals  with  whom  he 
had  small  sympathy.  In  the  warm  evenings  he 
enjoyed  sitting  in  an  easy  chair  on  the  porch  and 
listening  to  the  chatter  of  the  pretty  girls  who 
sauntered  by.    Sometimes  he  elected  to  stroll  over 

135 


RIDERS  UP! 


to  old  Doc  Kelly's  cottage.  The  veterinarian  was 
heavy  of  flesh  and  sparse  of  scalp,  but  he  had  some 
very  excellent  remedies  in  his  cellar,  and  he  was 
quite  skilled  in  chess.  Also  he  did  not  mind  listen- 
ing to  Major  Bob's  description  of  how  Warren's 
Corps  crossed  the  Potomac;  so  the  two  had  be- 
come quite  good  friends. 

But  there  was  one  part  of  the  Major's  daily 
program  that  was  never  affected  by  the  weather 
or  circumstances.  When  the  sun  dipped  low,  and 
lavender  shadows  crept  down  the  western  hills  of 
the  Livermore  Valley,  Chickahominy's  owner 
plodded  up  to  the  pasture  to  pay  his  respects  to 
the  big  gelding.  It  was  quite  a  while  before  the 
horse  was  dissuaded  from  the  suspicion  that  such 
visits  meant  the  end  of  the  only  vacation  he  had 
ever  known.  He  was  always  alert  for  the  sight 
of  a  halter.  But  at  length  he  came  to  understand, 
by  the  apple  or  the  lump  of  sugar  left  on  the  top 
rail,  that  his  visitor  was  to  be  trusted,  and  in  time 
he  ate  confidently  out  of  his  owner's  hand,  and 
waited  for  him  expectantly. 

Relations  having  been  established  on  this  basis, 
the  Major  sat  on  the  fence  in  the  late  afternoons 
talking  to  Chickahominy. 

Now,  there  is  this  about  a  horse:  he  does  not 
reason,  but  he  remembers;  he  does  not  compre- 
hend words,  but  he  responds  to  tones;  he  does 

136 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

not  recognize  features,  but  he  absorbs  the  spirit 
of  his  trainer. 

Early  summer,  and  the  bees  were  buzzing  in 
the  clover.  Major  Bob  came  up  to  the  pasture 
one  afternoon  and  found  Chickahominy  roUing 
around  on  his  back,  legs  waving  ridiculously  in 
the  air.  At  his  call,  the  gray  struggled  up,  stared 
at  him  roguishly,  and  then  snorted  off  in  the  oppo- 
site direction. 

"Heah,  suh,"  commanded  the  Major,  "stop  it 
this  minute,  suh!  Y'all  are  a  thoroughbred,  not 
a  confounded  ci'cus-ho'se!" 

But  the  aged  gelding  merely  kicked  up  his 
heels,  frolicked  away  and  then  approached  in  a 
flirtatious  circle.  It  was  very  evident  that  Chick- 
ahominy desired  his  owner  to  chase  him. 

The  Major  affected  high  indignation,  but  he 
was  none  the  less  delighted,  for  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  fact  that  the  son  of  the  great 
Chikamauga  was  beginning  to  feel  his  oats. 

Then  came  the  annual  county  fair,  arid  for  three 
days  the  old  race-track  boiled  noisily;  crowds 
drifted  in  and  out  of  the  live-stock  tents,  and  in 
the  afternoons  a  bugle  called  hot-blooded  horses 
to  the  post.  A  battle-scarred  gelding  on  the  hill- 
side stared  at  the  scene  below,  wandered  away, 
and  returned  to  the  bars  for  another  look.  When 
the  Major  left  that  night,  Chickahominy  followed 

137 


RIDERS  UP  I 


along  the  fence  and  neighed  shrilly.     His  owner 
looked  back. 

"Patience,  suh!"  he  commanded. 

The  fair  ended;  Pleasanton  drowsed  again; 
and  then  one  morning  old  Doc  Kelly  and  little 
Bubbles  trailed  the  Major  up  the  hill. 

The  climb  told  on  the  veterinarian.  "Glory  go 
to  Peter!"  he  puffed.  "I  thought  you  told  me 
you  had  a  stake-horse,  Major;  he's  a  goat!" 

"Suh!" 

"Angora,  at  that!  Look  at  his  hair;  damn' 
old  broken-down  billy  goat." 

"Not  a  wo'd  mo',  suh!"  flamed  the  Major. 
"Not  one  wo'd!  I  allow  no  man  to  talk  about 
my  ho'se,  suh,  in  that " 

"Don't  argue,"  cut  in  Kelly,  " — it's  too  hot.  I 
say  he's  a  goat!" 

The  Major  waved  his  cane.  "Damnation, 
suh!" 

"Same  to  you,"  chuckled  the  other,  "and  many 
of  them."  He  was  beginning  to  breathe  a  little 
more  freely.  "Well,  catch  your  old  whiskbroom, 
and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  with  it;  go  ahead — 
what  do  you  think  I  came  up  here  for?" 

The  Major  quivered  irresolutely,  but  Bubbles   | 
slipped  a  halter  on  the  restless  Chickahominy,  and 
finally  they  trekked  dustily  downward.     A  day 
later  the  Arlington  gelding,  close-clipped,  hoof- 

138 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

polished,  shod  and  smelling  vilely  of  old  Doc 
Kelly's  matchless  liniment,  occupied  the  same  stall 
where  years  before  he  had  munched  his  pre- 
Chrlstmas  oats. 

Summer  blended  into  the  quiet  fall,  and  Major 
Bob  strolled  over  to  the  track  every  morning  to 
watch  Chickahominy  thundering  over  the  course 
under  double  wraps.  The  Major  always  asked 
the  same  question,  and  got  the  same  reply  from 
Bubbles : 

"  'Pears  like  he's  roundin'  to  fo'm,  eh,  you 
young  rascal?" 

"Yassir,  Mister  Major,  dis  ol'  hawss  like  to 
pull  my  ahms  off.  Sure  goin'  to  teach  them 
N'Awleans  babies  where  dey  gets  off  at." 

*'Likes  a  distance,  too — eh,  you  scamp?" 

*'Sure  does,  for  a  fac',  boss;  does  we  go  a  half- 
mile,  ol'  Chickahominy  jes'  get  hisself  wahmed 
up  an'  int'rested;  does  I  give  him  his  haid,  he 
sure  ambulates;  yessir,  he  jes'  about  flies!" 

Even  old  Doc  Kelly  had  to  admit  that  the  big 
gelding  was  loosening  up,  but  he  attributed  it 
entirely  to  the  wet  bandages,  the  warm  fomenta- 
tions, and  above  all,  to  the  miraculous  and  well- 
known  powers  of  his  liniment. 

"Fiddlesticks  I"  snorted  the  Major,  and  not  un- 
til he  became  unbearably  thirsty  did  he  condescend 
to  speak  again  to  the  veterinarian. 

139 


RIDERS  UP  I 


Early  in  November,  Chickahominy  worked  a 
mile  in  one  minute  and  forty-six  seconds  on  a  track 
that  was  apparently  two  seconds  slow,  and  he  was 
still  going  along  nicely  at  the  end. 

The  Major  wrote  a  letter  that  night  to  And 
You  Mclvor  at  New  Orleans: 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  inform  you,  sir,  that 
Chickahominy  is  now  a  very  capable  horse.  Unfortun- 
ately, circumstances  will  not  permit  of  my  bringing  him 
on  to  New  Orleans,  but  I  trust  that  you  still  have  suffi- 
cient confidence  in  my  judgment  to  send  for  the  horse, 
and  enter  him  yourself  in  the  Christmas  Handicap.  I 
should  very  much  like  to  have  him  meet  King  William, 
who  I  read  is  doing  excellently;  and  if  you  will  pardon 
the  further  suggestion.  Jockey  Sutherland,  the  little  lad 
whom  I  brought  last  year  from  Kentucky,  has  excellent 
hands,  and  is,  I  believe,  a  free  lance. 

Awaiting  your  valued  advice,  allow  me  to  subscribe 
mjrself ,  sir — 

Your  old  friend, 

Robert  Arlington. 

To  which  Mclvor  immediately  replied: 

The  news  regarding  Chickahominy  is  deeply  gratify- 
ing, but  I  sincerely  trust  that  you  will  not  allow  any 
circumstances  to  prevent  the  Arlington  colors  from  being 
represented  in  the  Christmas  Handicap.  Have  talked  the 
matter  over  with  various  members  of  the  Old  Guard 
(they  are  fast  disappearing,  Major),  and  we  all  agree 
that  your  absence  is  quite  unthinkable.  Merely  as  a  busi- 
ness proposition,  I  am  inclosing  a  draft  to  cover  expenses, 

140 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

and  we  will  let  Chickahominy  take  care  of  the  matter 
with  interest  in  due  time.  I  trust  you  will  not  disap- 
point your  old  friends. 

Yours  truly, 

Charles  McIvor. 

P.  S.  Jules  wants  to  know  if  he  shall  prepare  the  cus- 
tomary dinner,  and,  of  course,  I  said  yes.  Sutherland  will 
be  delighted  to  handle  Chickahominy.  The  little  chap 
loves  you,  Major,  and  he  rode  three  winners  yesterday. 
Best  boy  on  the  track  right  now. 

The  Major  blew  his  nose  repeatedly,  and 
showed  the  letter  to  old  Doc  Kelly,  and  to  old 
lady  Tompkins,  who  ran  the  hotel,  and  to  the 
editor  of  the  Pleasanton  Times,  who  wrote  a  col- 
umn about  the  distinguished  Major  Arlington, 
"who  has  been  summering  in  our  midst  with  the 
famous  race-horse  Chickahominy."  The  article, 
boiled  down,  and  sent  to  the  San  Francisco  and 
Oakland  papers,  earned  the  Pleasanton  journal- 
ist two  dollars  and  seventy  cents  in  space  rates, 
and  surrounded  the  Major's  departure  with  con- 
siderable eclat.  Bubbles  was  particularly  raptur- 
ous, for  New  Orleans  was  his  conception  of  para- 
dise; and  Gulfport,  where  Mammy  Jackson  lived, 
was  but  a  short  hop  to  the  east! 

December  found  a  gray  gelding  scrambling 
from  a  car  to  the  leather-colored  turf  of  Jeffer- 
son Park,  from  which  McIvor,  the  Information 

141 


RIDERS  UP! 


Kid,  Canada  Dick  Tracy,  and  all  the  thousand  and 
one  characters  of  the  race  track  wove  a  trail  in 
and  out  of  the  city.  Major  Bob  breathed  once 
again  familiar  atmosphere,  and  discussed  with 
Jules  at  nightfall  the  gustatory  delights  of  a 
bouillabaisse. 

Two  weeks  before  Christmas  the  Information 
Kid  cornered  Mclvor.  The  purveyor  of  news 
was  very  much  excited. 

"I  seen  a  miracle  this  morning,"  he  confided. 
"Old  Chickahominy  worked  a  mile  in  one  minute 
and  forty-one  seconds  with  his  mouth  open.  Look 
here,  boss,  don't  let  the  Major  waste  him  for  the 
Handicap;  the  Toomey  bunch  are  leveling  with 
King  William  in  that  race,  and  it's  sewed  up.  Slip 
the  old  hound  into  a  cheap  sprint  right  away,  and 
we'll  all  get  aboard  for. the  killing." 

But  Mclvor  merely  smiled.  "Go  tell  it  to  the 
Major,"  he  advised. 

The  Kid  buttonholed  Chickahominy's  owner. 

"Cheap  sprint,  Major,"  he  begged.  "The 
track's  cardboard  now.  Don't  tip  your  hand  by 
letting  Sutherland  ride  him.  Put  an  ordinary  boy 
up,  smuggle  your  old  sleeper  in  at  seven  furlongs 
and  give  us  a  chance  to  go  into  the  old  sock." 

"Not  a  step,  suh,'*  thundered  the  Major, 
"rrrr  not  One  stcp  until  the  Handicap  itself;  my 
hono'  is  at  stake,  suh!" 

142 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

*'Oh,  hell!"  said  the  Kid. 

It  lacked  three  days  of  Christmas  when  the 
hustler  again  broached  the  subject  to  Mclvor. 
The  latter's  picturesque  profession  had  been  seri- 
ously affected  by  the  pari-machlnes,  and  he  was 
now  operating  "from  the  ground." 

"Thought  you  told  me  little  Sutherland  agreed 
to  ride  Chickahominy." 

"He  did." 

"Well,"  grunted  the  Kid,  "he's  welched,  then; 
Ted  Fuller  has  the  boy  booked  for  a  leg-up  on 
King  William.  That  means  they  are  going  after 
the  dough  just  like  I  told  you.  Santa  Claus  ain't 
going  to  pull  down  no  twenty-thousand-dollar 
purse  while  the  Toomey  bunch  is  in  business." 

Major  Bob  received  the  news  of  Jockey  Suther- 
land's defection  to  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  with 
stupefaction.  Mclvor  wanted  to  lay  the  case  be- 
fore the  stewards,  but  the  Virginian  was  not  of 
that  mind.  He  was  hurt,  mortally  hurt,  by  the 
behavior  of  a  boy  on  whom  he  had  lavished  in 
the  bygone  days  gifts  that  reflected  an  old  man's 
fancy.  It  was  a  cruel  blow  to  another  of  his 
cherished  ideals,  but  he  chose  to  make  light  of  it. 

"The  boy  is  young;  it  is  ha'd  fo'  him  to  recog- 
nize the  obligations  of  friendship,  suh.  Bubbles 
will  ride  fo'  me,  I  reckon — a  bit  inexperienced,  but 
ve'y  faithful,  suh,  ve'y  faithful!" 

143 


RIDERS  UP! 


Mclvor  managed  to  corner  Sutherland  in  a 
restaurant  that  night. 

'Throwing  the  Major  down,  eh?'*  he  ques- 
tioned. "Kid,  you  won't  get  very  far  with  that 
kind  of  stuff  I  You've  been  eating  off  the  old  man 
every  Christmas  for  three  years,  and  now  you 
slip  him  the  double  cross  when  it  means  life  and 
death." 

Little  Sutherland's  pale  face  whitened  still 
more.  ''I  can't  explain,  Mr.  Mclvor,"  he  stam- 
mered. *'rm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  just  had  to  ride 
King  William."  And  that's  all  the  boy  would 
say. 

Christmas  Day  dawned,  a  New  Orleans  Christ- 
mas, with  firecrackers  exploding  in  the  street,  and 
the  soul  of  the  Crescent  City,  which  is  somewhat 
that  of  a  coquette,  beginning  to  forecast  that  de- 
licious period  which  begins  with  Twelfth  Night 
and  climaxes  deliriously  in  the  Mardi  Gras. 

Out  to  Jefferson  Park  streamed  the  sport-lov- 
ing thousands  to  witness  the  running  of  the  Christ- 
mas Handicap  at  a  mile  and  a  quarter — the  great 
majority  to  pin  their  faith  to  King  William,  the 
take-a-chance  gentry  to  support  Captain  Adams, 
Cedar  Lane  or  the  Parnassus  stable,  and  only  the 
paddock  swipes,  rubbers  and  jockeys  to  risk  hard- 
earned  dollars  on  the  Santa  Claus  entry.  The 
paddock  cares  nothing  for  the  dope-sheet  and  is 

144 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

irreconcilably  opposed  to  a  favorite.  It  is  the 
place  where  hunches  are  born,  dreams  materialize 
or  dissolve,  and  blind  loyalty  persists.  When  in 
doubt,  the  paddock  jams  a  pin  through  the  entry 
list,  or  writes  all  the  names  on  pieces  of  paper, 
rubs  the  scraps  between  soiled  hands,  and  blows 
its  breath.  The  last  bit  of  paper  to  cling  to  the 
palm  Is  surely  the  winner. 

Post  time  brought  a  field  of  ten  thoroughbreds 
to  the  barrier,  and  sent  And  You  Mclvor  hustling 
up  to  where  the  Major  was  standing  in  the  club- 
house balcony.  Mclvor  had  small  hopes  of 
Chickahominy  finishing  in  the  money,  and  he  was 
fearful  that  the  horse's  owner  would  find  in  the 
Christmas  Handicap  a  little  more  weight  than  any 
gallant  old  gentleman  should  be  asked  to  bear. 

Major  Bob  v/as  watching  the  field  through 
glasses. 

"A  ve'y  great  moment  in  my  life,  suh,"  He  ob- 
served. "A  sma't  field,  a  ve'y  excellent  cou'se. 
In  the  old  days,  suh,  reckon  I'd  be  a-gettin'  fifty 
to  one  on  my  ho'se  and  I'd  be  a-bettin'  him  right 
on  the  nose.  The  machines,  suh,  are  abominable 
contraptions,  quite  abominable.  I  have  wage'ed 
a  hundred  dolla's,  but  the  Infernal  odds  depend 
upon  the  entlah  play — an  insult  to  a  man's  in- 
telligence, suh!" 

Mclvor  nodded  sympathetically,  his  eyes  on 

145 


RIDERS  UP! 


the  squirming  wall  of  color  a  quarter-mile  down 
the  track.  Suddenly  he  stiffened;  electric  gongs 
sounded,  and  the  mob  boomed  Into  voice. 

"They're  off  I"  announced  Mclvor.  "Good 
start,  too!  Here  they  come — Marietta  setting 
the  pace.  King  William  a  head  on  the  rail,  Cap- 
tain Adams  third — a  neck.  Others  bunched.  .  . 
Chlckahomlny  on  the  outside.  Bubbles  ought  to 
hustle  him  up  a  bit,  Major " 

The  Major  lowered  his  glasses  and  watched 
the  field  rush  past  the  grandstand  and  enter  the 
mile. 

"Y'all  are  mistaken  about  Chlckahomlny,  suh,'* 
he  said  quietly.  "He's  a  Glo'Iana  ho'se,  and  they 
come  from  behin'  at  the  propah  time." 

"Ah,  yes — to  be  sure!"  murmured  Mclvor 
politely. 

He  leveled  his  glasses  again  as  the  rushing 
hedge  of  color  swung  into  the  back-stretch,  and 
the  early  pace-setters  began  to  weaken. 

"There  goes  King  William!  Sutherland  isn't 
taking  any  chances." 

A  bay  blur  surmounted  by  a  scarlet  blouse  that 
flapped  in  the  wind  shot  out  from  the  pack  and 
took  command  by  a  length,  then  two.  The  grand- 
stand clamor  heightened. 

"Captain  Adams  moving  up,"  said  Mclvor. 
"Parnassus  getting  a  poor  ride.     Ah,  there  goes 

146 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

Star  Balcony  on  the  outside.  Bring  him  up  easy, 
boy,  and  you  got  a  chance " 

"A  ve'y  excellent  race,"  said  Major  Bob.  '*A 
little  mo'  close  than  I  expected,  but  ve'y  excellent.'* 

Mclvor  shot  a  quick  puzzled  glance  at  his  com- 
panion. Accustomed  as  he  was  to  seeing  men 
mask  their  emotions,  he  could  not  understand  the 
Major's  calm  tone;  for  the  race  was  now  at  the 
half-mile  pole,  King  William  was  setting  his  own 
pace  well  in  the  lead,  and,  pounding  along  twelve 
lengths  in  the  rear.  Bubbles  was  taking  the  dust 
of  the  second  division. 

And  You  muttered  something  under  his  breath, 
but  even  as  his  fertile  imagination  tried  to  picture 
some  way  of  softening  the  final  blow,  his  trained 
eyes  saw  Chickahominy  swing  to  the  crown  of  the 
track  where  the  footing  was  firmest,  and  lengthen 
his  awkward  stride.  The  gap  of  daylight  between 
the  hurrying  field  and  the  Virginia  colors  con- 
tracted. 

The  Major's  calm  drawl  sounded  in  Mclvor's 
ears : 

"That  Suthe'land  boy  is  a  powe'ful  rider,  but 
an  A'lington  ho'se  neve'  fo'gets,  suh;  reckon  y'all 
are  a-goin'  to  see  some  tall  runnin'  round  heah  I" 

Mclvor  did  not  reply.  His  glasses  were  glued 
on  the  far  turn,  striving  to  interpret  that  sudden 
burst  of  speed  from  Chickahominy.     It  was  too 

147 


RIDERS  UP! 


far  to  determine  whether  Bubbles  was  making  his 
drive  now,  or  whether  the  boy  still  had  the  reins 
around  his  wrists.  If  the  former  was  the  case, 
the  old  gelding  would  have  nothing  left  in  the 
stretch,  but  If  he  was  still  running  under  single 
wraps,  then  anything  was  possible. 

The  multitude  kept  its  eyes  on  the  leaders,  but 
the  discerning  gentry  with  the  field-glasses,  watch- 
ing for  the  unexpected,  saw  a  green-and-blue  sash 
bobbing  along  in  seventh  position,  then  sixth,  then 
fifth,  then  become  blotted  out  for  a  moment  by 
the  fourth  horse. 

A  buzzing  in  the  grandstand  showed  that  the 
crowd  now  saw  the  new  challenger  and  was  striv- 
ing to  Identify  him. 

Mclvor's  voice  sabered  the  din. 

"The  old  rock  of  ages!  Major,  look* at  him 
take  hold  of  Cedar  Lane.  He's  got  him,  tool 
My  God,  if  he  was  five  years  younger!" 

The  field  made  the  far  turn  and  straightened 
out  into  the  stretch.  King  WiUiam  leading  cleverly 
on  the  rail,  and  four  horses  behind  him,  running 
abreast. 

A  long  moment,  with  the  triumphant  paean  of 
the  King  William  adherents  holding  undisputed 
sway.  Then  came  a  discordant  note,  the  high- 
pitched  call  of  the  children  of  the  paddock,  and 
it  grew  in  volume : 

148 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

''Come  on,  you  Major  Bob  I  Come  on,  you 
Virginia  horse  I  Oh,  you  dinner  I  Oh,  you  old 
Santa  ClausI  -  .  .  King  William's  quitting.  .  .  . 
Come  on  Virginia !  .  .  .  Come  on,  come  on, 
come  onF' 

One  position  out  from  the  rail,  bandaged,  badly 
ridden,  but  gaining  at  every  jump,  on  came  Chick- 
ahomlny.  He  lapped  King  William  at  the  pad- 
dock, lunged  up  to  his  neck;  a  head,  a  nose — and 
then  for  a  moment  they  bobbed  together,  stride 
for  stride.  In  that  one  instant,  with  little  Suther- 
land banging  away  on  King  William,  ding-dong, 
hammer  and  tongs,  hurling  the  bay  horse  onward, 
Fate  hesitated. 

Major  Bob  dropped  his  glasses  and  his  cane. 
His  fingers  twitched  at  his  mustache.  His  voice 
came  in  an  imploring  whisper : 

"Chlckahomlny,  suhl  .  .  .  Virginia,  suh!  .  .  . 
Chickahomlny !" 

And  In  the  last  fifty  yards,  with  the  paddock 
gone  crazy,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Sutherland 
outrode  Bubbles;  but  King  William  in  turn  was 
outgamed  by  a  battle-scarred  gray  veteran  with 
the  flame  of  the  ruby  in  his  eyes. 

In  the  judges'  pagoda  two  men  squinting  along 
the  wire  and  holding  their  breath  agreed  that  in 
the  very  last  jump  the  nostrils  of  the  bay  had  been 
blotted  out  by  those  of  the  Major's  horse. 

149 


RIDERS  UP! 


Volcanlcally  the  stands  erupted,  as  Is  always 
the  case  when  a  long  shot  comes  home;  but  high 
above  the  general  babel  thousands  of  people 
caught  a  high-pitched,  shamelessly  exultant  rebel 
yell.  It  came  from  an  old  gentleman  In  the  club- 
house gallery,  his  hat  off,  his  Immaculate  cuffs 
disarranged,  and  his  glorified  face  turned  to  the 
sky. 

The  Information  Kid  scuttled  around  until  he 
found  And  You  Mclvor.  The  Kid  had  missed 
the  best  thing  In  his  race  track  experience,  but  he 
was  not  wasting  any  time  worrying  over  that. 

*'SlIp  me  a  case  note,"  he  bargained,  "and  I'll 
tell  you  why  Sutherland  rode  King  William  In- 
stead of  Chlckahominy." 

Mclvor  sensed  that  the  news  was  worth  while. 
He  peeled  off  a  bill  and  handed  it  over. 

*'Right,"  acknowledged  the  Kid  cheerfully. 
"Now,  here's  the  low  down.  Sutherland  figured 
the  race  lay  between  the  two  horses.  He  wanted 
the  Major's  entry  to  win,  but  he  didn't  think  the 
old  skate  could  do  It.  So  he  decided  to  ride  King 
Wilham  to  make  sure  that  Chlckahominy  would 
win.     Get  the  angle?" 

*'0n  your  way!"  rebuked  Mclvor.  "You're 
getting  worse  every  hour.  King  William  never 
got  a  better  ride  In  his  life!" 

"Gimme  a  chance  to  finish,"  snapped  the  Kid. 
150 


THE  CHRISTMAS  HANDICAP 

"I  tell  you  that  Sutherland  figured  the  best  way 
to  help  the  Major  was  to  give  King  William  an 
easy  ride,  understand?  But  the  boy  couldn't  go 
through  with  it;  he  ain't  made  that  way;  and 
when  he  got  to  figuring  it  over,  he  saw  that  Major 
Bob  was  a  square-shooter  too.  So  he  went  ahead 
and  did  his  best,  and  he  come  damn'  near  beating 
the  horse  he  was  praying  would  win!  Now  the 
little  fool  is  crying  his  head  off  in  the  jockeys' 
room  because  he's  in  dutch  all  around.  Ain't  that 
one  for  the  book?" 

Mclvor  whistled  thoughtfully. 

"I  imagine,"  he  mused,  "the  Major  will  be 
more  tickled  over  that  information  than  the 
extraordinary  size  of  his  new  bank-account.  You 
tell    Sutherland    that    I'll  fix    everything    up    all 

right;; 

Christmas  night  In  La  Louisienne,  with  the  long 
tables  groaning  under  Southern  delicacies,  a  five- 
dollar  bill  under  each  of  the  one  hundred  plates, 
and  fat  old  Jules  waddling  around  and  imploring 
every  one:  "Eat,  mes  enfants!  Only  in  Jules 
does  a  man  do  anything  else  but  starve.  Allons! 
The  same  to  you,  mon  brave!'' 

At  one  end  of  the  long  room  sat  And  You 
Mclvor,  polished  knight  of  the  Goddess  of  For- 
tune, at  the  other  Major  Robert  Arlington  of 
Fairfax  County,  Virginia.     Bubbles  headed  one 

151 


RIDERS  UP! 


amazing  line  of  grinning  faces,  little  Sutherland 
the  other.  An  hour  passed,  and  Major  Bob  arose, 
not  without  difficulty,  for  rheumatism  is  a  penalty 
of  advancing  years.  But  his  voice  held  the  old 
clear  resonance. 

^T'allhappy  down  the'?" 

*Tou  know  it.  Major !    'Atta  old  talk !" 

"Y'all  a-goin'  to  be  heah  again  next  yeah?" 

What  a  clatter  and  banging! 

Major  Bob  raised  his  glass.  He  looked  down 
into  the  eager  happy  faces  of  another  generation, 
and  he  realized  that  the  relentless  curtain  of 
Time  was  slowly  descending  between  them. 
Therefore  he  put  his  soul  Into  the  toast,  and 
stood  erect  and  dignified  as  he  wished  them  to 
remember  him  while  he  rendered  the  epilogue  to 
the  play: 

"Mo'  sensitive  than  a  woman — mo'  cou'ageous 
than  a  man — the  tho'ougbred,  suh — God  and 
Vi'giniar 


VI.     OH,  SUSANNA! 

PRAISE  be  to  Allah,  the  Beneficent  King, 
Lord  of  the  Three  Worlds;  Blessing  be 
upon  our  Lord  Mohammed,  and  upon 
his  Family  and  Companion  Train !  It  has  reached 
me,  O  Auspicious  King — ^^" 

At  this  point  the  Information  Kid  stretched  out 
a  little  more  comfortably  in  the  tackle-room  of 
old  Johnny  Whiskers,  and  permitted  the  copy  of 
*'The  Arabian  Nights"  to  slip  from  his  fingers. 
The  light  from  the  little  coal-oil  lamp  winked  at 
the  ragged  volume  open  to  the  story  of  the  sad 
Princess  who  never  laughed.  Far  down  the  ave- 
nue of  whitewashed  stalls,  shimmering  in  the 
warm  Kentucky  moonlight,  a  banjo  strummed 
plaintively.  Snowball,  black  as  a  prayer-book, 
lazy  as  a  crocodile,  was  singing  to  the  queen  of 
the  Southern  three-year-olds : 

//  rained  all  night  the  day  I  left; 
The  weather  it  was  dry. 
The  sun  so  hot  I  froze  to  death — 
Susanna^  dont  you  cry! 

Oh,  Susanna,  dont  you  cry  for  me, 
Tve  come  from  Alabama 
With  my  banjo  on  my  knee! 

153 


RIDERS  UP! 


And  in  the  third  stall  from  the  right,  Susanna 
herself  listened  contentedly  to  the  serenade,  while 
Luna,  from  high  in  the  heavens,  wrapped  the 
Latonia  course  in  a  mantle  of  witchcraft.  The 
night  wore  on,  and  the  Information  Kid,  busted 
and  supperless,  slumbered  uneasily,  his  head  pil- 
lowed on  a  racing  saddle.  Finally  Snowball 
sought  his  blankets,  and  Susanna  ceased  her  rest- 
less stamping.  Then,  in  the  ensuing  hush,  the 
original  Author  of  all  stories  compounded  the 
formula  for  the  narrative  of  the  sad  little  Queen 
who  did  not  dance.  Allah  bless  thee,  Brother, 
while  the  tale  unfolds.  .  .  . 

Susanna  was  a  slender,  golden,  chestnut  filly  of 
aristocratic  lines,  with  four  white  stockings  and  a 
blazed  face.  She  was  by  Duke  of  Charlestown 
out  of  the  great  mare  Dawn  o'  Virginia.  Horse- 
men had  often  wondered  what  would  happen  if 
those  two  temperamental  racing  machines  were 
ever  mated;  Susanna  was  the  answer.  She  was 
the  swiftest  and  most  conscientious  little  piece  of 
horseflesh  that  ever  sprang  into  action  when  the 
starter  yelled:     "Come  on!" 

"But,"  old  Snowball  used  to  say,  "Ah  never 
did  see  in  all  mah  bawn  days  such  a  chil'  for 
notions.  Wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  whatsum 
eveh  with  Missy  Sue  to-day  'cause  Major's  daugh- 
ter done  wore  a  silk  skirt  what  rustled.     No  sir, 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


and  thar  ain't  nobuddy  can  give  Susanna  apples, 
ner  sugar,  ner  candy — jes'  tomatoes.  Man,  does 
y'all  give  her  a  tomato,  she  am  yo'  lily  love,  for 
a  fac'.  Sho'  am  de  beatines'  baby  Ah  ever  sees  in 
mah  whole  endurin'  life!" 

There  were  many  strange  things  about  Susanna, 
some  of  which  could  be  explained  through  inher- 
itance, while  others  were  attributable  solely  to  her 
own  temperament.  Race-horses  have  frequently 
been  credited  with  possessing  the  traits  of  a 
capricious  woman.  But  a  more  accurate  simile 
would  compare  them  to  children,  for  they  are  ex- 
tremely sensitive,  instinctive  in  their  likes  and  dis- 
likes, and  subject  to  all  the  notional  vagaries  of 
childhood.  The  higher  the  breeding,  the  more 
temperamental  the  thoroughbred. 

Susanna's  sire  had  a  twelve-cylinder  motor  un- 
der his  ribs,  but  he  was  a  wolf  at  the  post,  and 
caused  more  trouble  to  the  starting-crew  than  a 
nest  of  hornets.  The  Information  Kid  had  it 
tucked  away  in  his  memory  that  once  at  New 
Orleans  they  tried  for  forty-five  minutes  to  start 
the  Duke,  and  finally  sent  the  others  away  without 
him.  The  field  had  gone  almost  a  sixteenth  of 
the  mile  when  the  big  chestnut  decided  it  was  time 
to  hoist  anchor.  He  won,  pulled  up.  In  one- 
twenty-seven,  carrying  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
two  pounds,   and  went  into  the  winner's  circle 

^55 


RIDERS  UP! 


with  a  three-foot  twitch-stick  still  hanging  from 
his  lower  jaw.  The  Duke  was  all  bulldog,  and 
once  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  run,  he  was  off 
like  a  flash  out  of  a  French  seventy-five;  and  he 
finished  with  the  throttle  wide  open,  neither  know- 
ing nor  caring  where  the  wire  was.  He  developed 
naturally  into  a  very  uncertain  betting  proposi- 
tion, and  finally  was  retired  to  the  farm. 

Dawn  o'  Virginia  was  just  as  high-strung,  but 
of  a  different  temperament.  Susanna's  mother 
had  to  be  eased  away  from  the  post  with  a  silk 
glove,  and  permitted  to  select  her  own  sweet  pace 
and  route,  the  latter  usually  one  position  from  the 
rail.  She  declined  absolutely  to  run  on  anything 
but  a  fast  track,  and  went  without  food  for  forty- 
eight  hours  on  one  occasion  because  Major  Arling- 
ton's bull  pup  got  a  fox-tail  in  his  ear,  and  had  to 
be  sent  away  to  a  specialist.  Not  until  her  canine 
pal  was  back  in  his  accustomed  box  in  her  stall 
did  the  mare  bend  head  to  the  feed-box. 

But  with  all  the  peculiarities  of  her  disposition,   | 
there  was  a  gallant  heart  in  the  bosom  of  the  ^ 
Virginia  matron.   This,  too,  the  Information  Kid 
remembered,   for  he  was  present  at   Lexington  | 
when  the  mare  was  kicked  at  the  post  in  a  mile 
race  for  horses  of  all  ages.     She  trembled  and 
showed  a  desire  to  lie  down,  but  the  barrier  went 
up,  and  her  jockey  hustled  her  away.     A  two- 

156 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


year-old  with  eighty  pounds  and  a  monkey  on  his 
back  beat  her  by  a  whisker  at  the  wire,  and  old 
Major  Arlington,  her  owner,  stood  on  the  club- 
house gallery,  with  the  tears  rolling  down  his 
cheeks.  That  was  the  time  Mrs.  Tuppington 
Smithers  asked  the  Major  sympathetically  if  he 
had  lost  much. 

"Lost  much?"  exclaimed  the  Major.  "Why, 
dammit,  madam — Ah  lost  a  ho'se-race !" 

But  the  Major  lost  more  than  that,  for  the 
veterinarian  reported  that  Dawn  o'  Virginia  had 
suffered  a  green-tree  fracture  of  the  radial  bone 
of  the  right  foreleg,  and  had  really  finished  on 
three  hoofs  and  her  golden  heart.  So  she  also 
was  retired,  and  a  few  years  later  Susanna,  her 
daughter,  appeared  as  the  glory  of  the  Southern 
circuit. 

If  there  was  one  thing  more  than  tomatoes  that 
Susanna  liked,  it  was  to  romp  under  the  wire 
first,  and 'then  go  back  to  the  stables  and  dance. 
Calm  as  a  nun  when  going  to  the  post,  Dawn  o' 
Virginia's  daughter  was  a  sight  for  the  gods  when 
Snowball  led  her  back  to  the  barns  after  she  had 
earned  her  brackets.  Then  It  took  all  hands  and 
the  cook  to  bandage  her,  cool  her  out  and  lay  her 
away- — for  Susanna  knew  when  she  had  won,  and 
her  dance  of  victory  was  the  apotheosis  of  equine 
elation,   needing  only  the  final    spanking    from 

157 


RIDERS  UP  I 


Snowball,  and  at  night  the  twanking  of  the  banjo, 
and  the  distant  murmur  of  darky  stable-hands 
gathered  under  a  lantern  outside  Johhny  Whisk- 
er's room,  and  coaxing  the  ivories : 

*'Eight's  mah  point,  and  Ah  lets  it  ride.  Throw 
it  down,  nigger,  throw  it  down!  Six  and  two  is 
eight,  and  Ah  buys  me  some  tan  dawgs.  Foah 
and  foah  is  eight,  and  Ah's  on  mah  way.  Five 
and  three,  five  and  three,  five  and  three,  wha'  is 
yo'?  Five  and  three,  come  to  yo'  daddy;  five  and 
three — and  Ah  spits  all  ovah  yo'  neck!" 

Thus  was  Susanna  soothed. 

Now  the  Major's  horses  always  ran  in  the 
money,  and  he  always  ran  out  of  it;  wherefore  his 
debts  became  oppressive,  and  it  was  a  case  of 
either  sell  Susanna  or  relinquish  the  last  hold 
on  the  family  home  in  Virginia.  He  offered  the 
filly  at  private  auction,  and  shuddered  when  he 
learned  that  the  man  who  took  Susanna  at  fifty 
thousand  dollars  was  an  agent  for  Bart  Nixon, 
gambler  and  fat  aspirant  for  "social"  recognition. 

But  the  deal  had  been  made,  and  Nixon  ordered 
the  filly  shipped  to  Canada  so  that  he  could  be  a 
winning  owner  and  strut  around  Dominion  Springs 
with  men  who  despised  him.  Thither,  also,  when 
the  Kentucky  tracks  closed,  went  the  Information 
Kid,  because  Dominion  Springs  was  a  place  where 
money  changed  hands  rapidly,  and  the  Kid's  eter- 

158 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


nal  hunch,  was  that  some  day  in  the  not  too 
distant  future  the  Goddess  of  Fortune  would  re- 
lent, and  her  sworn  servitor  would  become  the 
high  priest  at  what  he  called  a  "pig-sticking." 

''When  little  Willie  does  go  home,"  he  was 
accustomed  to  say,  "I  want  the  old  lady  to  get  a 
real  kick  out  of  it.  She's  been  waiting  ten  years 
to  see  her  baby  boy,  and  believe  me,  she's  entitled 
to  a  front  seat  when  the  big  show  comes  off.  The 
day  I  knock  the  props  from  under  the  betting 
stands,  I'll  buy  new  uniforms  for  the  town  band, 
and  equip  all  the  kids  with  Roman  candles.  Yea, 
bo!" 

By  ways  in  which  none  was  his  superior,  the 
Kid  achieved  a  modest  bank-roll  after  he  had  been 
in  Dominion  Springs  for  a  week,  and  the  day 
Susanna  started  in  her  new  colors,  he  slapped  it 
all  right  on  her  nose.  In  the  Kid's  twenty-four 
years  of  life  on  this  paradoxical  planet,  he  had 
never  encountered  anything  that  looked  quite  so 
promising  as  that  mile  handicap  with  Teddy 
Powers  astride  the  mare  and  only  one  hundred 
and  twelve  pounds  in  the  saddle.  The  Kid  knew 
that  Powers  was  a  "money-rider";  he  knew  also 
that  Nixon's  trainer,  Jim  Whalen,  was  one  of  the 
best  men  who  ever  rigged  a  thoroughbred.  Ordi- 
narily, the  Kid  would  have  been  a  little  cautious 
about  picking  a  Southern  horse  to  win  at  Domin- 

159 


RIDERS  UP! 


ion  Springs  on  the  first  asking,  but  Susanna  fig- 
ured to  have  both  the  class  and  the  speed  of  the 
field,  and  the  Kid  appreciated  that  her  owner  was 
eager  to  capitalize  his  investment.  It  needed  only 
the  spectacle  of  the  fat  gambler  openly  playing  his 
new  acquisition  straight  on  the  nose,  to  remove 
the  last  doubt  from  the  Kid's  mind. 

"Pretty  soft,"  he  muttered  as  the  bell  rang. 
''Track  made  to  order,  and  nothing  but  a  nice 
friendly  lot  of  lizards.  Here's  where  I  go  home 
on  the  cushions.  They'll  have  to  get  out  search 
warrants  for  the  rest  of  the  field  when  Susanna 
turns  loose." 

But  this  is  the  story  of  the  sad  little  Princess 
who  did  not  dance.  Susanna  led  most  of  the  jour- 
ney like  a  wash-day  long-shot,  but  halfway  up  the 
stretch  she  appeared  to  tire,  and  after  a  fierce 
drive.  Arbutus  got  up  in  time  to  nod  out  Dawn  o* 
Virginia's  daughter  at  the  wire.  Five  minutes 
later  the  ring  was  strewn  with  torn  tickets,  and 
the  official  announcer  was  giving  the  familiar  O.K. 
to  the  cashiers: 

*'A-l-l  r-i-g-h-t,  here's  the  winner!" 

The  Information  Kid  shook  himself,  and 
grinned  not  uncheerfully.  "Ruined  again,"  he 
sighed.  "I  was  a  boob  not  to  pay  up  my  board- 
bill  while  I  had  a  chance.  Susanna  must  have 
been  out  late  last  night.    Guess  I'd  better  ramble 

1 60 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


down   to   the   stalls   and   get   an   earful   of   the 
grief." 

Opposite  the  back-stretch,  where  the  Nixon 
barn  was  located,  the  Kid  came  across  a  little 
chestnut  filly  disconsolately  submitting  to  the  cool- 
ing-out process.  Like  most  trainers,  Jim  Whalen 
was  providing  his  own  alibi  at  the  expense  of  the 
jockey: 

"Serves  me  right  for  putting  a  swell-head  in 
the  coop,"  he  lamented.  "I've  told  that  kid  till 
I'm  black  in  the  face,  to  ride  out  his  mounts,  but 
any  time  he  gets  a  few  lengths  to  the  good,  he 
sits  back  and  picks  his  teeth.  The  filly  should 
have  finished  under  the  bat.  Anybody  could  see 
that  she  needed  rough  handling." 

The  Kid  lit  a  cigarette  and  inhaled  thought- 
fully. 

"Looked  to  me  like  Teddy  was  giving  her  a 
swell  ride.  Susanna  is  a  bit  short  from  the  trip 
up  here." 

The  trainer  snorted  contemptuously. 

"Go  take  a  run  around  the  track,"  he  invited. 
"Susanna  had  the  race  won,  and  a  thing  with 
three  legs  and  a  swinger  stole  it.  Next  time  I'll 
put  a  boy  up  who  knows  how  to  spank." 

A  shadow  crossed  the  Kid's  lean  features,  and 
his  shrewd  gray  eyes  softened. 

"Don't  do  that,  Jim,"  he  advised.     "She's  a 
i6i 


RIDERS  UP! 


good  little  filly,  and  the  whip  would  break  her 
heart.  All  them  Virginia  horses  are  sensitive,  and 
most  of  'em  are  cuckoo,  but  I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed 
world  they  can  win  without  no  whip.  Lay  off  the 
bat  with  Susanna,  and  in  a  race  or  two  she'll  be 
dancing  away  from  the  pay-station  just  as  pretty 
as  ever." 

Whalen  waved  one  hand  in  dismissal.  "Any 
time  I  want  any  advice,  I'll  pay  for  it.  You  keep 
away  from  these  stalls,  or  I'll  have  your  badge 
taken  up." 

The  Information  Kid  laughed  softly. 

*'You  have  my  best  regards,  and  may  your  con- 
science guide  you.  For  two  bits  I'd  knock  you 
into  the  middle  of  next  week." 

He  turned  away,  sauntered  off  a  distance  of 
fifty  feet,  and  looked  back.  Susanna,  standing 
quietly  while  the  stable-crew  worked  on  her  deli- 
cate legs,  raised  her  head  and  stared  listlessly  in 
his  direction.  Her  graceful  shoulders  seemed 
devitalized.  Down  somewhere  In  the  depths  of 
the  Kid's  strange  soul,  something  fluttered — as 
though  the  Lord  of  the  Three  Worlds  had 
breathed  upon  that  mysterious  banjo-string  which 
men  call  sympathy.  The  Information  Kid  was  a 
racetrack  oddity,  steeped  in  the  wisdom  of  his 
profession,  hardened  in  ''ways  that  are  dark,  and 
tricks  that  are  vain,"  yet  ever  true  to  a  code  of 

162 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


sportsmanship  and  sentiment  that  was  all  his  own. 
Usually  his  emotions  were  aroused  by  beef-stew, 
Spanish,  or  the  story  of  Aladdin  and  the  wonder- 
ful lamp.  But  sometimes  he  responded  to  other 
conceits  just  as  quaint,  and  his  imagination  led 
him  into  extraordinary  channels.  He  looked  at 
Susanna,  once  proud  princess  of  the  Southern 
juveniles,  standing  forlorn  and  dejected  outside 
the  barn  of  a  man  who  had  attained  wealth  by 
Importing  French  champagne  from  Japan  in  the 
guise  of  soy-bean  oil,  and  across  his  mind  flashed 
the  grim  hunch  that  Nixon's  colors  spelled  the 
end  of  Susanna's  dancing.  Intuitively  he  sensed 
that  he  was  on  the  threshold  of  an  equine  tragedy. 

"It's  a  gypsy  curse,  all  right,"  he  shivered, 
*' — straight  from  Number  Thirteen,  Queer  Street. 
I've  seen  that  look  in  a  horse's  eyes  before,  and 
It's  slow  poison.  That  whip  stuff  goes  for 
Sweeney.     Yea,  bo,  Susanna's  a  sick  horse." 

He  made  his  way  sorrowfully  to  the  boarding- 
house,  and  once  again  sang  his  customary  alto  to 
the  landlady's  ''O  Promise  Me!"  Upstairs  in  the 
six-by-elght  bedroom  he  spent  art  hour  doping  the 
next  day's  card,  and  then  plunged  back  into  the 
magic  pages  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  This  time 
he  learned  all  about  the  seven  suitors  of  the 
King's  sad  daughter,  and  the  valiant  tailor  who 
at  last  won  her  heart;  and  when  he  finally  turned 

163 


RIDERS  UP  I 


out  the  light  and  went  to  sleep,  it  was  to  dream 
that  a  Genie  with  a  red  beard  had  presented  hint 
with  a  magic  dancing  powder,  and  that  Susanna, 
ridden  by  the  rheumatic  Snowball,  was  coming 
down  the  stretch  at  a  thousand  to  one.  He  woke 
up  on  the  floor  shouting  and  heard  old  man 
Murphy,  in  the  next  room,  pounding  on  the  wall 
and  demanding  quiet  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints 
and  the  police. 

*'Guess  I  need  some  of  old  Doc  Kelly's  pills," 
commented  the  Kid  when  he  got  up  the  next 
morning;  ''them  and  about  a  hundred  bucks. 
Let's  see,  now,  who  did  I  shake  down  last?'* 

One  after  another  he  checked  off  his  list  of 
acquaintances  without  discovering  any  one  who 
appeared  likely  to  part  from  "a  century."  The 
truth  was  that  there  were  many  visitors  in  Do- 
minion Springs  who  were  exactly  in  the  Kid's 
predicament,  for  the  town  boasted  seventeen 
bathing-places,  one  hundred  and  fifty  games  of 
chance,  and  a  race  track.  For  Its  size  it  was  un- 
doubtedly the  greatest  cleaning  establishment  on 
the  continent. 

"Guess  I'll  have  to  turn  dish-washer,"  sighed 
the  Kid.  "There's  one  thing  about  pearl-divers: 
they  don't  go  hungry — though  I'll  tell  the  wide 
world  it's  a  sloppy  profession." 

But  opposite  the  Turf  Exchange  the  Kid 
164 


I 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


bumped  Into  a  new  arrival,  "And  You"  Mclvor, 
Kentucky  bookmaker,  and  the  most  polished 
Chesterfield  of  chance  that  ever  hung  up  a  card 
in  a  betting-ring. 

"Hail,  Columbus!"  shouted  the  Kid.  "Now  I 
know  how  the  old  bird  felt  when  he  sighted  land. 
A  hundred  dollars,  Mac,  and  I'm  yours  for  the 
season.  Quick,  before  I  eat  up  your  cuff-buttons." 
Mclvor  smiled  and  reached  for  his  wallet. 
Many  a  time  in  the  old  days  at  New  Orleans  and 
in  Kentucky  he  had  staked  the  Information  Kid 
and  profited  by  the  transaction. 

''The  pleasure  is  mine,  son,"  he  assured  him 
now,  and  handed  over  a  roll  of  bills.  "What's  on 
your  mind?" 

"Ham  and  eggs  right  now,"  the  Kid  answered. 
"Later  on  I've  got  some  poison  to  unload.  If 
you're  going  to  cut  in  to-day,  keep  the  price  short 
on  Warfield  In  the  third  race — the  Hyland  crowd 
are  shooting,  and  they've  got  the  money  placed 
from  here  to  Egypt." 

Mclvor  nodded,  aware  that  this  tip  alone  was 
worth  ten  times  the  sum  he  had  just  advanced. 

"While  I  think  of  it,"  added  the  Kid,  "here's 
another  one  to  stick  in  the  old  hat-band:  next 
time  Susanna  starts,  take  their  money  till  the  bell 
rings,  and  don't  weaken." 

Mclvor  fingered  the  white  carnation  in  his  but- 
i6s 


RIDERS  UP! 


tonhole.  "I  rather  expected  to  do  just  the  oppo- 
site, son.    What's  wrong?" 

The  Kid  eyed  his  friend  soberly.  "I  can't 
quite  dope  it  out,  but  I'm  afraid  the  Major's  little 
go-getter  will  never  dance  again.  Tell  you  what, 
Mac — first  time  you  get  a  chance  to  lamp  a  work- 
out, watch  the  way  she  pulls  up." 

"Pittsburgh  Phil  theory,  eh?" 

*'Well,  there's  a  lot  to  it,  Mac.  When  a  filly 
is  on  edge  and  full  of  run,  she  4on't  pull  up  the 
way  Susanna  does.  If  you'll  listen  to  me,  the 
little  girl  is  sick." 

*'More  likely  she's  shot  her  bolt,"  Mclvor 
deliberated.  "The  history  of  the  game  is  full  of 
great  two-year-olds  that  failed  to  carry  on,  espe- 
cially fillies." 

"Not  the  Virginia  line,"  the  Kid  reminded  him; 
"all  them  horses  are  deep-chested  and  bred  to  the 
purple.  Handle  'em  right,  and  they'll  stick  their 
nose  in  front  of  anything  that  runs.  Excuse  me, 
Mac;  I  got  to  make  a  dive  for  the  feed-bag,  or 
I'll  croak.     See  you  at  church !" 

Three  days  later  Susanna  went  to  the  post 
again,  and  in  the  saddle  was  Jockey  Bat  Maguire, 
recognized  by  many  authorities  as  the  strongest 
pilot  in  the  country.  Susanna  was  the  medium  of 
a  heavy  plunge  by  the  Nixon  crowd,  who  hoped 
to  recuperate  their  losses  on  the  previous  start. 

i66 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


Maguire  got  her  away  well,  but  at  the  three- 
furlong  pole  she  began  to  lag,  and  Nixon^s  jockey 
drew  whip.  Susanna  swerved  under  her  first  pun- 
ishment, lost  her  stride,  swung  out  at  the  stretch, 
and  then,  when  it  was  too  late,  finished  like  a  wild 
horse  on  the  outside  of  the  track  and  in  fifth 
place. 

The  Information  Kid  was  down  at  the  first- 
furlong  pole  when  Susanna  was  being  led  back  to 
the  stable.  The  little  filly's  eyes  were  large  with 
terror,  and  under  the  blanket  every  silken  muscle 
was  quivering.  There  was  no  pride  in  the  curve 
of  her  dainty  head,  no  challenge  in  the  distended 
nostrils — nothing  but  despair  and  anguish  written 
in  every  line  of  Susanna's  slim  figure. 

The  Kid's  lips  buttoned,  and  his  mind  flashed 
back  to  the  afternoon  when  Susanna,  at  fifteen 
to  one,  captured  the  Lexington  Baby  Stakes  on 
her  first  start,  and  then  dragged  four  colored 
grooms  twice  around  the  barn  in  a  terpsichorean 
revel.  That  was  but  the  first  of  her  triumphs, 
and  the  Information  Kid  had  played  her  every 
time. 

"It's  murder,  all  right,"  he  muttered.  "That 
guy  Nixon  has  put  the  old  oofty-goof  on  the  little 
filly;  there  ain't  no  Virginia  horse  that  can  live 
under  the  colors  of  a  crook.  Yea,  bor — one  of 
these  days  she'll  bust  herself  against  the  fence, 

167 


RIDERS  UP! 


and  then  some  greasy  slob  will  walk  forward  with 
a  gat.  Bang! — and  the  glue-works.  A  hell  of  a 
finish  for  a  queen!" 

He  tramped  disconsolately  back  to  the  ring, 
and  Mclvor  beckoned  to  him.  The  bookmaker 
had  followed  the  Kid's  advice  and  had  bet  the 
followers  of  Susanna  to  a  standstill. 

"Nixon  and  his  trainer  just  had  a  fist-fight 
back  of  the  stands,"  confided  Mclvor.  "Bart 
accused  Jim  of  doping  the  filly,  and  he's  gone 
down  to  the  barns  with  a  veterinarian.  See  what 
you  can  find  out." 

The  Kid  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "No  use. 
I  was  talking  to  one  of  the  stable  rubbers  last 
night,  and  he  told  me  Susanna  was  the  poorest 
feeder  he  ever  saw.  I  didn't  say  nothing,  but  I 
know  that  when  she's  right,  she's  a  manger  glut- 
ton. One  of  the  jocks  told  Whalen  about  the 
filly  being  daft  over  tomatoes,  and  he  ordered  a 
basket  of  them.  All  she  did  was  back  away. 
There's  no  veterinarian  going  to  cure  that  look 
in  Susanna's  eyes.  She's  just  beggin'  for  some- 
thing, and  if  I  knew  what  it  was,  I'd  get  it  for 
her,  even  if  it  was  my  right  leg." 

The  handsome  knight  of  the  blackboard 
favored  his  friend  with  a  curious  glance,  but  he 
refrained  from  comment.  Experience  had  taught 
him  that  sentiment  usually  interfered  with  good 

i68 


OH,  SUSi\NNA! 


judgmerxt,  and  the  latter  was  his  stock  In  trade. 
The  fact  that  Susanna  had  raced  thirty  pounds 
below  form  had  made  a  difference  in  his  favor  of 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  His  chief  concern  was 
to  make  sure  that  her  indisposition  was  not  such 
that  it  would  vanish  overnight  as  soon  as  the 
price-layers  grew  careless,  and  Bart  Nixon  slipped 
the  right  word  to  his  friends. 

But  the  Information  Kid  had  called  the  turn. 
One  after  another,  as  the  days  went  by,  skilled 
veterinarians  examined  Susanna,  and  none  could 
diagnose  her  ailment.  Dawn  o'  Virginia's  daugh- 
ter remained  in  her  stall,  quiet  and  sad-eyed,  and 
the  golden-chestnut  limbs  with  the  white  stock- 
ings moved  only  automatically  In  the  hopeless 
early  morning  exercise. 

Watch  in  hand,  the  Information  Kid  perched 
on  the  top  rail,  clocking  the  workouts  and  looking 
always  for  the  day's  three-star  special,  but  of  one 
thing  alone  was  he  clear  In  his  mind:  Susanna 
was  growing  frailer  every  day. 

Knights  of  the  rag  spread  the  tip  straight  from 
the  fodder-troughs  that  the  Virginia  star  would 
never  wear  racing-plates  again.  She  had  internal 
hemorrhages,  they  said,  and  Nixon  was  trying  to 
unload  her  while  there  was  yet  time.  The  Infor- 
mation Kid  scowled  at  this  explanation,  and  con- 
tinued  to   revolve   other   theories   in  his   fertile 

169 


RIDERS  UP! 


imagination.  Gradually,  Susanna's  plight  became 
an  obsession  like  unto  nothing  he  had  ever  before 
experienced.  And  somehow  the  fancy  crept  into 
his  mind  that  Dawn  o'  Virginia's  daughter  needed 
but  the  appearance  of  a  fairy  Prince  with  a  magic 
wand,  to  regain  all  her  beauty  and  ambition. 

"It's  them  damn  'Arabian  Nights,'  he  sighed. 
"I'll  have  to  give  that  stuff  the  gate,  or  they'll 
pasture  me  among  the  daffodils." 

Nevertheless  the  legend  of  the  King's  sad 
daughter  persisted  in  haunting  him,  and  one 
morning  while  he  was  chatting  with  Henry  the 
Rat  down  by  the  five-sixteenths  pole,  he  expressed 
himself  audibly. 

"There  ain't  nothing  wrong  with  Susanna  ex- 
cept that  she's  jinxed.  That  guy  Nixon  is  one  of 
them  ogres  you  read  about  who  keeps  a  little 
dame  in  chains,  and  Susanna  is  just  waiting  for  a 
Prince  to  come  along,  or  a  Genie,  and  say:  'Too- 
lie-woolie,  abracadabra!'  Then  you'd  see  her 
dance!" 

Henry  the  Rat  squinted  up  the  rail  to  where  a 
group  of  visitors  were  strolling  toward  the  Nixon 
barns. 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  you  were  right.  Kid,"  he 
grunted,  "and,  strike  me  blind,  if  here  don't  come 
your  Prince!" 

Not  a  hundred  feet  away,  Bart  Nixon  was 
170 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


waddling  along  a  tanbark  path  that  skirted  the 
stalls,  and  by  his  side  stalked  Haidar  Ali  Kol- 
hapur,  Maharaja  of  Baroda  and  Indore,  ruler 
of  seven  million  people,  by  His  Majesty's  grace, 
and  owner  of  seventeen  wives  and  four  race- 
tracks. A  white  turban  surmounted  a  face  of 
dark  velvet.  Across  the  bosom  of  his  frock  coat 
flashed  a  row  of  jeweled  decorations.  One  hand 
swung  lightly  a  gold-headed  cane.  The  Infor- 
mation Kid  slid  slowly  from  his  perch. 

*'0h.  Daddy!"  he  breathed.  "Look  who's 
here !  Pipe  the  medals,  Henry !  Even  money 
says  he's  the  Banjo  King  of  Alabama,  or  the 
world's  champion  crap-shooter." 

•'Not  so  loud,"  implored  the  Rat.  *'That  ain't 
no  dinge.  I'm  telling  you  he's  a  Prince,  and  he 
holds  up  his  pants  with  diamonds.  I  read  all 
about  it  in  the  paper.  Jakey  Schultz  gave  me 
the  low-down  just  this  morning.  Nixon  is  trying 
to  unload  Susanna  on  his  Royal  Nibs  at  a  fancy 
price.  He's  give  it  out  that  they  been  pulling  the 
filly — get  me?  Chance  for  one  of  us  to  pick  up 
a  little  change  by  spilling  the  beans.  Are  you 
ready  below?" 

*'0h,  shut  up,"  censured  the  Kid.  *Tou'd  gyp 
your  grandmother  out  of  her  false  teeth.  Look, 
they're  going  to  bring  Susanna  out.  Let's  go 
over  and  get  an  earful." 

171 


RIDERS  UP! 


They  sauntered  over  to  the  low-roofed  line  of 
stalls  where  Nixon,  Jim  Whalen,  PriAce  Kol- 
hapur,  and  members  of  the  latter's  party  were 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  the  filly.  Presently  a 
groom  approached  leading  the  daughter  of  Dawn 
o'  Virginia.  The  quiet  dignity  with  which  Susanna 
conducted  herself  struck  at  the  Kid's  heart. 

"She's  past  caring  what  happens,"  he  mut- 
tered. *'Henry,  if  your  cannibal  friend  knows 
anything  about  horses,  he'll  keep  his  kale  in  his 
pocket." 

Susanna  sidled  away  from  Nixon,  and  then 
whirled  back  on  her  haunches  as  Jim  Whalen 
stepped  toward  her.  The  movement  brought  her 
in  line  with  the  ruler  of  seven  million  people. 
The  Prince  advanced  confidently  and  placed  a 
firm  ebony  hand  on  the  halter  of  the  sad  little 
Princess  who  did  not  dance.  Then  a  very  strange 
thing  happened.  Dawn  o'  Virginia's  daughter 
flung  up  her  head  and  stared  at  Prince  Haidar 
AH  Kolhapur.  Delicate  ears  flexed  forward  and 
back;  high  lights  dawned  in  the  lustrous  eyes;  a 
white  plush  muzzle  stretched  timidly  toward  the 
royal  face;  and  with  a  shrill  whimper  of  equine 
ecstasy,  Susanna  reared  up  and  pawed  the  air. 
Forward  and  back,  she  plunged — nuzzling  at 
the  shoulder  of  the  Heaven-born,  striving  with 
unmaidenly  squeals  to  win  his  favor. 

172 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


The  Information  Kid  clutched  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"My  Gawd!"  he  gasped.  "Do  you  see  what 
I  do?" 

"She's  dancin',  all  right,"  Henry  acknowl- 
edged. "Ain't  that  just  what  you  said  she'd  do 
if  she  lamped  a  prince?     That  guy  is  good." 

The  Kid  blinked  dazedly.  "I'll  say  he  is,"  he 
echoed. 

The  frock-coated  potentate  released  the  halter, 
swept  a  quieting  hand  along  Susanna's  throat, 
and  turned  to  Bart  Nixon.  He  said  in  perfect 
English : 

"The  filly  is  built  on  fast  lines,  but  I'm  search- 
ing for  a  little  sturdier  stock — larger-boned  ani- 
mals that  can  pack  weight  and  go  a  route.  You 
know  we  don't  fancy  the  sprints  quite  so  much 
In  India,  and  I  rather  imagine  the  Derby  dis- 
tance would  be  a  little  far  for  her.  No  offense 
infended,  you  know,  but  she  seems  a  bit  weedy, 
eh?" 

"The  Virginia  fillies  are  all  slender,"  Whalen 
acknowledged,  "but  they've  got  plenty  of  heart 
and  bottom.  Susanna  was  hurried  a  bit  this 
spring,  and  she's  a  little  sour,  but  she'll  work 
out  of  It.  Take  my  word  for  It,  Prince;  these 
last    two    races    have    just    been    pipe-openers. 

173 


RIDERS  UP! 


There's  nothing  in  Canada  that  will  lead  Susanna 
to  the  wire." 

Henry  the  Rat  nudged  his  colleague.  "Ain't 
that  rich?"  he  whispered.  "If  Susanna  was 
matched  against  a  lame  snail,  Jim  wouldn't  bet  a 
plugged  nickel  on  her  chances;  he  told  me  so 
himself." 

But  the  Information  Kid  made  no  reply.  He 
was  staring  in  mystification  at  the  Vh-ginia  thor- 
oughbred; and  Susanna  in  turn  had  her  lovely 
eyes  riveted  beseechingly  on  Prince  Kolhapur,  as 
though  imploring  him  not  to  leave  her. 

The  sportsman  from  the  Far  East  hestitated  a 
moment,  and  then  rendered  the  imperial  verdict. 
"A  splendid  filly,  Mr.  Nixon,  a  credit  to  your 
stable,  I  am  sure — but  far  too  delicate  for  such  a 
long  journey.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  take  a  look 
at  your  stallions." 

Ten  minutes  later  Susanna  was  turned  out  to 
pasture  in  a  field  just  back  of  the  Torpington 
stables.  On  his  way  to  the  track  restaurant  the 
Information  Kid  paused  for  another  puzzled  look 
at  the  daughter  of  Dawn  o'  Virginia.  The  filly 
was  standing  disconsolately  at  the  barred  gate, 
mournful  eyes  turned  toward  the  road  down 
which  the  Prince  had  vanished. 

The  Kid  tossed  fretfully  on  his  cot  that  night, 
staring  up  into  the  darkness,  and  arguing  that  the 

174 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


thing  was  Impossible.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  was  a  prey  to  the  green-orbed  jackals  of 
jealousy.  Susanna  had  danced  at  the  mere  sight 
of  a  man  who  cared  nothing  for  her,  and  the 
Kid's  divine  hunch  that  he  himself  was  to  be  the 
fairy  Prince  who  would  lift  the  spell  was  rudely 
blasted. 

"The  big  black  stiff!"  he  grunted.  "I  don't 
see  why  she  should  fall  for  him,  even  if  he  has 
got  a  lot  of  dough.     The  big  black " 

And  then  he  sat  bolt  upright,  galvanized  by 
the  shock  of  sudden  inspiration. 

"Oh,  Susanna  !"  he  cried.  ^7  got  you!'*  I  win 
the  pup  with  the  screw  tail !  Twenty  minutes  for 
a  new  book,  gents;  and — believe  me  or  no — 
Susanna  and  I  are  going  to  take  you  all  to  the 
cleaners!" 

Early  the  following  morning  a  strange  appari- 
tion glided  from  behind  a  corner  of  the  Torping- 
ton  ^arns  and  shuffled  tow^ard  the  pasture  gate. 
It  was  the  figure  of  a  slim  youth,  attired  after  the 
manner  of  a  stable  roustabout.  Face  and  hands 
were  the  color  of  a  first-class  brand  of  stove- 
polish,  but  back  of  the  ears  the  skin  showed  no 
traces  of  African  origin,  and  the  battered  hat 
was  pulled  closely  down  over  sandy  hair.  The 
visitor  sprawled  lazily  against  the  gate,  and 
Susanna  tossed  her  head  and  stared  at  him.    Pres- 

175 


RIDERS  UP! 


ently  a  drawling  voice  floated  toward  the  sad 
little  Princess.  It  held  a  thousand  memories  of 
the  Southland  in  its  musical  inflection. 

*'Lawd  A'mighty,  if  tha'  ain't  Susanna !  Wha' 
y'all  been,  honey  chil'?  Come  on  ova'  heah,  Babe, 
till  Ah  sees  does  y'all  want  a  tomato  for  break- 
fast.' Yah,  yah,  yah!  Sho'  am  de  beatines' 
baby!" 

Dejection  dropped  from  the  golden-chestnut 
frame  of  Susanna.  Dawn  o'  Virginia's  daughter 
danced  joyously  toward  her  visitor,  all  a-quiver. 
The  tomato  disappeared,  and  Susanna  made  a 
frantic  effort  to  lick  the  Information  Kid's  face, 
and  then  eat  up  his  cotton  shirt.  Chuckling  with 
glee,  he  held  her  at  bay. 

"Ain't  no  way  a-tall  to  treat  yo'  gen'leman 
friend,"  he  protested.  "Gen'leman  frien'  wut's 
come  clear  from  Kaintuck  jes'  t'  see  whut  done  ail 
his  honey  gal.  Does  yo'  love  yo'  daddy,  Susanna  ? 
Whoa,  hawss!  Whoa,  er  Ah'll  bus'  yo'  from 
heah  ter  de  Promised  Land!" 

But  Susanna  continued  to  caper  crazily,  for 
the  sad  little  Princess  was  at  the  gates  of  Para- 
dise, the  keys  to  which  were  held  by  a  youth  with 
stove^polish  on  his  face. 

His  gray  eyes  shining,  and  his  slim  figure  once 
more    in    its    accustomed    habiliments,    the    Kid 

176 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


sought   out   Mclvor    and   went   straight   to   the 
point. 

"Buy  Susanna  for  as  little  down  as  Nixon  will 
take,  and  make  the  balance  payable  in  thirty  days. 
Meantime,  give  her  to  me.  The  Dominion  Stakes 
are  just  a  month  away,  and  if  the  filly  don'lt  look 
the  judges  in  the  mug  after  that  race,  the  deal 
Is  off!" 

Mclvor  looked  twice  at  the  Kid  to  make  sure 
the  latter  was  not  joking. 

"Forget  it,  son,"  he  admonished,  "that  little 
filly  is  through,  x'^nyway,  I'm  not  buying  horses; 
I'm  laying  against  them,  and  between  you  and  me, 
the  last  week  has  cost  me  a  hundred  thousand. 
If  you  want  fifteen  hundred  yourself " 

"I  do,"  said  the  Kid,  "and  I  want  It  quick.'* 

The  gambler  wrote  out  a  check  and  handed  It 
over.  Gravely  the  Kid  accepted  the  white  slip, 
folded  it  and  tore  It  Into  small  pieces. 

"Now,"  he  Instructed,  "you  take  that  fifteen 
hundred  and  give  it  to  Nixon  as  first  payment  on 
Susanna.  If  you  don't  want  to  put  up  the  balance 
In  thirty  days,  I'll  find  some  one  who  does.  All 
I  ask  Is  that  you  tell  people  you've  sent  her  away 
for  a  rest,  and  if  I  give  you  the  word,  you  pay 
her  starting-fee  in  the  stakes.'* 

Mclvor  frowned. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?" 
177 


RIDERS  UP! 


*'Take  her  on  the  tracks  and  keep  her  a  week 
ahead  of  the  circuit.  When  they're  running  at 
Blue  Heather,  she'll  be  working  at  Kensington; 
when  they  move  on  to  Kensington  she'll  be 
galloping  at  Grace  Arbor.  That  will  bring  her 
back  here  one  week  before  the  others,  and  then 
Susanna  will  pay  for  herself  in  the  stakes." 

The  big  bookmaker  sighed.  Under  a  mask  of 
urbanity  and  nonchalance,  he  felt  the  strain  of 
thirty  years  spent  in  the  hectic  whirl  of  the  betting- 
ring.  He  would  have  given  a  great  deal  for  the 
youthful  sentiment  and  courage  reflected  in  the 
Kid's  lean  features.  But  it  was  a  long  time  since 
Mclvor  had  read  The  Arabian  Nights.  He  knew 
that  the  Dominion  Stakes  would  attract  the  best 
three-year-olds  in  Canada,  and  he  had  seen 
Susanna  dropping  steadily  below  her  form.  He 
put  a  paternal  hand  on  the  Kid's  shoulder : 

*'Son,  you're  not  keeping  your  ear  as  close  to 
the  ground  as  usual.  Nixon  bought  Sir  Barry  out 
of  the  Torpington  stables  yesterday,  and  that's 
the  horse  that  has  the  Dominion  at  his  mercy. 
Better  take  two  thousand  and  treat  yourself  to  a 
little  vacation,  son;  you're  slipping." 

The  Information  Kid  fumbled  for  a  cigarette, 
lit  it,  and  for  a  few  moments  smoked  silently. 
Sir  Barry  was  a  husky  three-year-old  with  a  repu- 
tation of  being  able  to  break  the  heart  of  any 

178 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


horse  he  hooked  up  with.  Sir  Barry  would  have 
the  stamina,  Susanna  the  speed;  what  about 
class?  The  Kid  closed  his  eyes,  concentrated  a 
moment,  and  concluded  that  it  was  a  toss-up.  Sir 
Barry  came  from  the  Black  Sophia  family;  Su- 
sanna traced  her  line  clear  back  to  Herod  the 
Second.  That  was  the  cold  "dope."  But  there 
was  another  angle.  Susanna  had  the  Virginia 
temperament,  and  that  is  something  which  is  not 
to  be  understood  save  by  people  like  old  Major 
Arlington,  or  Snowball,  or  race-track  hustlers 
who  fall  for  The  Arabian  Nights. 

*T11  go  home  after  I  see  Susanna  dance  her 
way  free  from  that  guy  Nixon,"  averred  the  Kid, 
"and  not  before.  Don't  worry  none  about  me 
slipping.  Play  Susanna,  and  I'll  show  you  how 
to  cover  this  lawn  with  dead  geese." 

Mclvor  capitulated  with  a  shrug.  "Where  do 
you  want  her?" 

"Old  man  Humphrey's  barn  will  do.  I'm 
wiring  to-night  for  some  medicine." 

"Medicine?" 

"Ye-ah,  from  Latonia;  when  it  gets  here, 
Susanna  and  I  are  going  away  on  a  honeymoon." 

Four  days  later,  when  Nixon  had  turned  the 
daughter  of  Dawn  o'  Virginia  over  to  Mclvor 
under  an  option  that  called  for  twenty-five  thou- 
sand additional  in  thirty  days,  Susanna  and  the 

179 


RIDERS  UP! 


Information  Kid  were  quartered  at  the  deserted 
Blue  Heather  track.  The  same  night  there 
arrived  from  Kentucky  a  special  consignment  of 
medicine  based  upon  an  Arabian  Nights^  prescrip- 
tion. 

The  days  passed.  The  bang-tails  moved  on  to 
Blue  Heather,  Kensington,  and  then  Grace 
Arbor.  No  one  thought  any  more  of  Susanna, 
though  her  name  remained  among  the  eligibles 
for  the  Dominion  Stakes.  Henry  the  Rat  heard 
a  vague  rumor,  and  he  spoke  to  Mose  Littleton, 
who  clocked  for  Mannie  Goldberg. 

"Hear  anything  about  a  chestnut  iilly  that's 
breaking  watches  just  ahead  of  us?  Guy  down 
at  the  hotel  last  night  said  he  saw  some  baby 
work  six  furlongs  in  one-twelve  and  three-fifths, 
at  Kensington,  with  a  coon  boy  sittin'  still." 

Mose  grunted.  "That  ain't  working,"  he 
commented,  "that's  flying!  The  guy  was  crazy. 
Kensington  is  a  dead  slow  track,  and  there  ain't 
nothin'  around  here  that  can  step  that  fast." 

They  were  sitting  on  the  top  rail,  heels  hooked 
on  the  lower  board,  stop-watches  in  hand.  Down 
the  back-stretch  a  horse  broke  Into  full  stride. 
As  he  passed  the  half-mile  post,  two  rail-birds 
deflected  their  thumbs. 

"Sir  Barry,  ain't  It?"  queried  the  Rat. 
"Whoops,    muh    dear,    lookit    that    thing    turn 

1 80 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


loose!  Guess  he  ain't  on  razor  edge.  There's  a 
race-horse!" 

"Whalen  had  got  him  pointed  for  the  Domin- 
ion; he  and  Nixon  are  going  to  sink  the  ship," 
confided  Mose.  "It  takes  a  bunch  of  crooks  to 
have  all  the  luck." 

Sir  Barry  flashed  past,  and  they  looked  at 
their  watches. 

"Wow!"  exclaimed  the  Rat.  "Twenty-three 
and  one-fifth,  forty-seven  and  one-fifth,  and  with 
his  mouth  open;  I'll  say  that  bird  is  ready!" 

No  one  ever  knew  what  it  cost  the  Information 
Kid  to  tear  himself  away  for  thirty  days  from 
the  game  that  he  loved.  But  And  You  Mclvor 
guessed  a  little  of  the  truth,  after  he  ran  across 
Major  Robert  Arlington  in  the  lobby  of  the 
Dominion  Springs  Hotel  the  night  before  the  big 
race.  Susanna's  former  owner  was  whiter,  thin- 
ner, resembling  more  than  ever  a  rare  old 
daguerreotype ;  but  he  stood  as  straight  as  always, 
and  he  still  was  attired  In  the  broad  black  hat 
and  frock  coat  that  distinguished  him  as  an 
Arlington. 

"Why,  Major!"  cried  Mclvor.  "I  thought 
you  were  In  Kentucky.     Glad  to  see  you!" 

"My  compliments  to  you,  suh,"  said  Major 
Bob,  "and  Ah  have  the  hono'  to  request  yo'  pres- 

i8i 


RIDERS  UP! 


ence  to-night  at  a  ve'y  special  occasion,  an  ova- 
powe'ing  occasion,   suh !      Susanna " 

"Good  Lord  I"  exclaimed  the  bookmaker,  and 
threw  one  arm  about  his  old  friend's  shoulders. 
"I  clean  forgot  the  little  filly  was  born  at  Arling- 
ton, and  raised  under  the  colors  of  a  gentleman. 
I  see  it  all  now.  That's  what  our  young  friend 
meant  by  sending  to  Latonia  for  medicine.  Su- 
sanna was  lovesick  for  Major  Bob,  and  the  Kid 
guessed  it.  YouVe  cured  her,  Major — I  can  see 
it  in  your  eye !" 

Major  Arlington  grew  very  red  in  the  face, 
and  his  fingers  pulled  at  his  mustache. 

"By  God,  suh!"  he  exclaimed,  "Ah'd  give  the 
whole  of  Virginia  if  Ah  could  cure  that  little 
filly,  but  y'all  do  me  too  much  bono',  suh — too 
damn  much  bono',  suh!  It's  my  niggahs  that 
Susanna  missed!" 

"Niggers?" 

"Niggahs,  suh — plain,  black  Vi'ginia  niggahs! 
The  same  lazy  rascals  that  babied  her  and  petted 
her  and  spanked  her,  since  she  was  old  enough 
to  take  milk  from  her  mammy.  The  tho'ough- 
bred,  suh,  loves  early  and  nevah  fo'gets.  Ah  am 
under  Instructions  from  our  young  friend  to  ask 
y'all  to  come  down  to  the  stables  where  Susanna, 
suh,  is  being  ente'talned  by  the  laziest  pack  o' 
niggahs  in  Fai'fax  County." 

182 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


Allah's  blessing  upon  the  heads  of  all  True 
Believers  I  Major  Bob  spoke  correctly.  Not 
half  an  hour  later  Mclvor  and  the  last  of  the 
Arlingtons  were  walking  toward  a  barn  that 
bulked  between  the  Torpington  and  Rockaway 
stables.  Luna  was  again  smiling  in  the  heavens, 
and  Mclvor  caught  the  voice  of  Snowball  and 
the  twang  of  a  banjo: 

Oh,  Susanna,  dont  yo*  cry  foh  me. 
Ah's  come  from  Alabama, 
Wij  mah  banjo  on  mah  knee! 

In  a  double  stall  with  only  a  low  partition  be- 
tween the  compartments,  Susanna  munched  con- 
tentedly at  her  feed,  one  ear  cocked  back  to  catch 
the  familiar  murmur  that  rose  from  under  a  coal- 
oil  lamp  not  ten  feet  away. 

"Roll  dem  dice  hot,  boy;  how  come  you  try 
an'  lay  'em  down?"  .  .  .  Reckon  Ah  shoots  a 
dollah;  showah  down,  fa'm  hands!"  .  .  .  "Bam 
— Big  Dick — Eno'mous  Richard  from  Boston, 
does  Ah  make  it?  Ah  don't  want  no  change.'* 
.  .  .  "Shake  'em  dice,  boy;  how  come  dey's  so 
quiet?"  .  .  .  "Mah  Gawd,  snake  eyes!  Ah 
reads  ace  and  deuce — Lady  Luck,  don'  y'all 
divo'ce  me  nov/!" 

A  lump  rose  in  the  throat  of  And  You  Mclvor. 
He  looked  about  him  for  the  stage  director  of 

183 


RIDERS  UP! 


this  strange  little  drama,  and  presently  the  Infor- 
mation Kid  loomed  out  of  the  darkness.  There 
were  tired  lines  in  his  face,  but  his  eyes  were  as 
sharp  as  ever. 

"H'llo,  Mac!"  he  called.  "The  sails  are  all 
set,  and  we're  ready  to  hoist  the  anchor.  Susanna 
is  back  in  form,  and  I'm  out  on  my  feet,  but — oh, 
boy!  You're  going  to  see  a  horse  race  to- 
morrow!" 

Mclvor  contemplated  Dawn  o'  Virginia's 
daughter  with  shrewd  eyes,  and  saw  that  Susanna 
was  indeed  in  racing  fettle.  She  was  at  least 
fifty  pounds  heavier.  Her  delicate  forelegs 
stamped  restlessly. 

"Who's  going  to  ride?"  he  asked. 

The  Information  Kid  nodded  toward  a  little 
negro  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  stall. 

"Bubbles  will  have  the  leg  up.  He's  Snow- 
ball's boy,  eighty-five  pounds,  and  the  trickiest 
little  coon  in  seven  counties.  He  and  Susanna 
drink  out  of  the  same  bucket.  We've  promised 
him  a  chicken  dinner,  and  a  pair  of  yellow  shoes, 
and  I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed  world  he'll  show  them 
other  jocks  the  shortest  way  to  the  wire." 

"Sir  Barry  will  go  out  in  front  and  set  the 
pace,"  said  the  bookmaker,  "and  Susanna  likes 
to  go  out  there  too;  one  or  the  other  will  crack 

184 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


under  all  that  weight,  and  you've  got  to  remem- 
ber that  she's  been  ailing." 

The  Kid  nodded  soberly.  "Don't  think  I 
ain't  been  laying  awake  nights,  doping  it  out. 
There's  a  field  of  ten  starters,  but  it's  really  only 
a  two-horse  race — Susanna  and  Sir  Barry.  The 
filly  has  the  speed  and  weight  of  her  sex,  but 
the  Nixon  entry  has  all  the  strength,  and  he's  a 
heart-bustin'  brute.  With  an  even  break,  Susanna 
will  win." 

"But  she  won't  get  the  break,"  said  Mclvor. 

The  Information  Kid  stared  dreamily  into 
purple  shadows. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  mused.  "You're  for- 
getting two  things :  No  one  is  wise  that  Susanna 
has  been  on  a  thirty-day  honeymoon.  On  the 
basis  of  her  last  performance,  she'll  be  fifty  to 
one  in  the  betting,  and  no  jock  will  be  afraid  of 
her.  Second,  she's  an  Arlington  horse,  and  they 
may  be  cuckoo,  Mac,  but  give  *em  their  own  way 
and  you'll  hear  the  band  playing  'Dear  01'  Vir- 
ginny.'  " 

Something  of  the  night's  magic  crept  into  the 
soul  of  the  tall  Kentuckian.  "You'll  want  to  put 
a  bet  on  her  yourself,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"Guess  you're  about  stranded.  How  much  do 
you  want?" 

The  Kid  hesitated  a  moment.  "Aw,"  he  dis- 
185 


RIDERS  UP! 


missed,  "I've  been  milking  you  enough.  I  don't 
want  no  more;  no  use  risking  too  much." 

But  that  wasn't  the  real  reason,  and  he  admit- 
ted it  a  moment  later : 

"Major  Bob  pawned  the  family  silver  to  bring 
those  coons  up  here,"  he  explained.  "The  old 
guy's  sure  a  sport.  Know  what  I  did  last  week 
at  Grace  Arbor?  Rubbed  horses  for  Jockey 
Schreiber  and  collected  the  large  sum  of  twenty 
bucks.  Susanna  runs  for  the  first  honest-to-God 
bank-roll  I've  earned  in  four  years — twice  times 
ten  on  her  lily  white  nose,  and  in  Nixon's  own 
book.  If  that  don't  put  the  old  oofty-goof  on 
Sir  Barry,  you  can  sell  me  to  the  undertaker." 

Mclvor  smiled,  and  said  nothing.  In  his  own 
mind  the  bookmaker  was  revolving  one  of  those 
problems  which  every  follower  of  the  race  track 
encounters — cold  logic  against  a  hot  hunch,  the 
improbable  against  the  possible,  drab  conserva- 
tism against  the  sporting  chance.  Many  times 
the  Chesterfield  of  the  betting  ring  had  tossed  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  into  the  lap  of  the  gods, 
and  smilingly  awaited  the  verdict;  but  he  was 
younger  then,  and  reckless  of  the  morrow.  It 
was  different  now — yet  Mclvor's  nerve  was  still 
intact. 

Dawn  came  and  brought  assurance  of  fair 
weather    and    a    fast    track.      Into    Dominion 

i86 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


Springs  streamed  the  thousands  to  witness  the 
renewal  of  the  famous  classic,  a  mile  race  for 
three-years-old  and  up,  with  twenty  thousand  dol- 
lars to  the  winner.  Under  double  wraps,  Susanna 
breezed  six  furlongs  and  then  retired  to  her  stall, 
to  be  rubbed  and  petted  by  her  dusky  handlers. 
She  had  shown  nothing  to  warrant  Interest  among 
the  rallblrds,  and  the  Information  Kid — com- 
plaining dolorously  about  a  mythical  sore  throat 
— barked  rudely  at  Henry  the  Rat,  who  sought 
to  question  him. 

The  Kid  and  Major  Bob  edged  their  way  into 
the  betting-ring  when  the  first  slates  were  hung  up 
for  the  Dominion  Stakes. 

''Thirty  to  one  on  Susanna,"  recorded  the  Kid. 
"Sir  Barry  is  favorite,  of  course — one  to  two. 
The  odds  will  lengthen  on  the  filly  in  a  few  min- 
utes.    Better  wait  until  the  very  last." 

The  Major  was  silent.  In  his  vest  pocket  was 
a  hundred  dollar  bill,  and  it  was  the  sum  total 
of  his  available  wealth. 

The  Information  Kid  clutched  suddenly  at  his 
companion's  sleeve.  "Pipe  what's  coming  off! 
Four  to  five  on  Sir  Barry  in  Mclvor's  book. 
Mac  Is  going  to  string  with  Susanna.  'Rah  for 
'old  Kentucky,  and  now  let  merry  hell  break 
loose!" 

The  Kid's  quick  eyes  had  been  the  first  to  see 

187 


RIDERS  UP! 


the  Kentucky  bookmaker  deliberately  sponge  out 
that  one-to-two  price  on  the  favorite,  and  chalk 
up  odds  that  were  certain  to  make  him  a  mark 
for  every  Sir  Barry  adherent  in  the  ring.  In 
three  minutes  the  rush  toward  Mclvor's  stand 
was  like  a  scene  in  the  wheat-pit.  No  other  book 
dared  to  follow  his  lead;  some  of  them  even 
marked  up  one-to-three  against  the  Nixon  entry. 

They'll  make  him  take  it  down,"  cried  the  Kid. 
"He  can't  stand  off  that  mob!" 

But  this  was  one  time  when  the  Kid  underesti- 
mated the  handsome  gentleman  from  Kentucky. 
Over  the  swirling  mass  of  humanity  that  eddied 
around  his  platform,  Mclvor's  silken  voice 
sounded  the  challenge  that  had  made  him  famous : 

'Tour  to  five  Sir  Barry  till  the  bell  rings! 
Forty  to  fifty  Sir  Barry — And  You?  Twelve 
hundred  to  fifteen  hundred — Sir  Barry.  — And 
yoii?  Forty  thousand  to  fifty  thousand — Sir 
Barry.  — And  yonf  'Double  it,'  the  man  says 
and  he's  on!    — And  youf^ 

The  Information  Kid  waxed  weak  In  the  knees 
and  clung  to  Major  Arlington.  "There's  your 
fifty  to  one  on  Susanna  over  In  Nixon's  book;  let's 
bet  our  nickels  and  beat  It.  I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed 
world  I've  seen,  at  last,  a  nervier  guy  than  Steve 
Brodie.  It's  Mac's  bank-roll  against  theirs,  and 
a  million  in  the  pot.     Oh,  SusannaP* 

i88 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


Now,  by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet,  the  conclu- 
sion of  this  story  is  told  from  Canada  to  New 
Orleans  in  seventeen  versions,  all  of  which  are 
far  removed  from  the  truth,  because  the  unex- 
purgated  account  is  the  property  of  two  jockeys. 
Chick  Billington,  who  rode  that  day  for  Nixon, 
and  little  Bubbles,  who  was  riding  for  Susanna 
and  a  pair  of  yellow  shoes.  Allah  guard  thy 
steps!    The  way  of  it  was  this: 

When  the  barrier  went  up,  Susanna  broke 
winging  from  seventh  position,  and  led  the  field 
for  the  first  sixteenth,  when  Sir  Barry  moved  up 
alongside  to  see  just  how  much  speed  she  had. 
Side  by  side  they  raced  for  another  sixteenth, 
and  then  little  Bubbles  looked  at  the  famous 
Chick  Billington.  Tears  were  streaming  down 
the  little  negro's  face. 

"White  boy,"  he  quavered,  "Ah's  got  mah 
everlastin'  life  bet  on  this  fool  filly  ter  finish 
secon\  There  ain't  no  chance  a-tall  fer  them  liz- 
ards back  there  to  do  nuthin'.  White  boy,  y'all 
got  this  heah  race  in  you'  hip  pocket,  but  Ah's 
pinin'  ter  run  secon'.  Let  me  stick  along  heah, 
white  boy — don'  shake  me  off,  er  this  yer  goat 
will  quit.  Jes'  let  me  stick  wif  you'  hawss  awhile 
longer." 

Chick  Billington  looked  at  the  little  negro 
astride  that  fifty-to-one  shot.    Sir  Barry  was  well 

189 


RIDERS  UP 


in  hand,  and  his  jockey  knew  what  the  horse  could 
do.  Contemptuously  Indulgent  of  the  colored 
apprentice,  the  older  boy  permitted  his  ears  to 
listen  to  those  honeyed  words,  and  the  three- 
quarters  was  run  just  one  second  slower  than 
Nixon's  trainer  had  figured. 

On  they  came,  Sir  Barry  at  the  rail,  Susanna's 
slim  form  a  chestnut  shadow  at  his  right.  They 
swung  into  the  stretch,  still  in  the  same  position, 
Billington  taking  it  easy.  Bubbles  sitting  low  in 
the  saddle.  The  tears  had  mysteriously  vanished. 
The  saddling  paddock  showed  up  at  the  right, 
and  the  distant  murmur  of  the  stands  came  to 
them,  the  sixteenth  of  a  mile  away.  The  pace 
had  been  of  stake-horse  caliber,  but  Sir  Barry's 
heart-crushing  tactics  had  been  deferred,  and 
Susanna's  strength  was  unexpended.  The  roar 
from  the  stands  increased: 

"Well,  so  long,"  said  Chick,  and  spread  all 
sails  for  the  wire. 

Snowball's  son  flung  himself  forward  on  Su- 
sanna's golden  shoulders. 

"Good-by,  yo'se'f  1"  he  shrieked.  "Lay  down 
to  it,  Susanna!" 

Burst  of  black,  charge  of  chestnut — and  Chick 
Billington  knew  that  the  race  of  his  life  lay  in 
the  next  few  hundred  yards.  Hammer  and  tongs, 
he   went   to    work — and    Sir    Barry    responded. 

190 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


Susanna's  milk-white  nostrils  bobbed  on  a  line 
with  those  of  the  Canadian  king.  Her  ears  flat- 
tened back;  her  stride  increased,  and  the  scarlet 
crept  into  the  whites  of  the  eyes.  Little  Bubbles 
was  riding  with  hands  and  feet,  and  arms  and 
head — and  heart.  His  voice  called  forth  the 
final  effort. 

''Hump  yo'se'f,  Susanna !  Nigger  boy  on  yo' 
neck,  gall  Show  'em  white  folks  how  us  runs  in 
Kaintuckl  Fifty  ya'ds  and  us  cashes!  Fifty 
ya'ds,  and  us  dances  all  night !  White  boy,  Ah's 
got  you  I     Bam!     And  us  makes  it!" 

Twenty  yards  from  the  finish.  Dawn  o'  Vir- 
ginia's daughter  drew  clear  of  the  Canadian 
king;  and  at  the  wire,  it  was  Susanna  a  length,  and 
going  away! 

A  volcanic  tempest  flew  up  in  stands  and  bet- 
ting-ring. Mclvor  smiled  calmly  from  his  plat- 
form. The  Information  Kid  vaulted  the  rail 
and  dashed  for  the  winner's  circle.  Snowball 
hurried  up  the  far  turn  with  Susanna's  blankets; 
and  little  Bubbles,  grinning  cheerfully,  leaned 
over  the  filly's  shoulders  and  chuckled: 

''  'Spects  that  white  boy's  goin'  bust  mah  neck, 
but  oh,  Susanna,  us  needs  yalla  shoes!" 

So  the  sad  little  Princess  danced  again,  and  all 
hands  and  the  cook  danced  with  her.  The  revel 
was  still  on,  v/hen  the  last  race  was  run,   and 

191 


RIDERS  UP! 


Mclvor  came  strolling  down  to  the  barn,  holding 
in  one  hand  a  slip  of  paper  for  which  he  had  just 
given  Bart  Nixon  twenty-five  thousand  dollars, 
and  thereby  earned  that  Individual's  undying 
enmity. 

"Son,"  said  Mclvor,  taking  the  Information 
Kid  aside,  "I  bet  on  horses;  I  don't  want  to  own 
them — not  even  the  best  little  filly  in  the  world. 
Here's  your  chance  to  go  Into  the  game  right, 
and  start  a  stable  of  your  own.  Pick  out  your 
colors,  boy — and  I'll  stake  you  to  Susanna.  Ah, 
Major — some  race,  wasn't  It?" 

Under  cover  of  Major  Robert  Arlington's  ap- 
proach, the  Information  Kid  lit  a  cigarette  with 
a  trembling  hand,  and  exhaled  the  smoke  through 
twitching  nostrils.  His  nimble  brain  reared  an 
Arabian  Nights'  edifice,  and  then  as  quickly  tore 
it  down.  Owning  horses  meant  feed-bills,  jockey- 
hire,  transportation,  a  thousand  and  one  expenses, 
and  turning  his  back  forever  on  the  freedom  that 
was  his  as  a  race  track  free  lance.  What  could 
he  do  with  Susanna  except  sell  her?  And  the 
little  filly  had  shown  Into  whose  keeping  she  had 
given  her  feminine  heart.  He  caught  a  look  of 
inquiry  from  Mclvor  and  wig-wagged  his  answer. 
Slowly  Mclvor  nodded  his  comprehension,  and 
the  Kid  stepped  forward. 

''Mac  and  I  were  just  talking,  Major,  about 
192 


OH,  SUSANNA! 


Susanna's  future.  Looks  like  it  would  be  plain 
murder  to  keep  her  away  from  home,  and  I  told 
him  that  if  he  wanted  to  turn  her  over  to  you,  I 
figured  you  could  take  her  back  to  Kentucky,  and 
pay  for  her  out  of  the  winnings." 

^'That's  it,"  iNIcIvor  corroborated.  "I'm  no 
horseman.  Major — just  took  a  gambler's  chance 
on  the  filly.  It  would  be  a  great  favor  if  you 
would  take  her  off  my  hands,  and  we'll  let  the 
sale-price  ride.     She's  paid  me  handsome  to-day." 

Major  Arlington's  eyes  swam. 

"Suh,"  he  began,  and  his  voice  broke.  Turn- 
ing to  Snowball,  he  covered  his  emotion  with 
energetic  waves  of  a  hickory  cane. 

"Stop  yo'  grinning,  yo'  black  rascal!  Yo'  hea' 
m-e?  Stop  it,  o'  I  leave  y'all  right  hea'.  Give 
Susanna  the  attention  that  an  A'lington  ho'se  is 
entitled  to,  and  put  her  aboa'd  the  ca's  in  the 
mo'ning!" 

Late  that  night  the  Information  Kid,  once 
more  in  the  possession  of  a  bank-roll,  and  with  a 
railroad  ticket  in  his  vest  pocket,  slipped  along  the 
darkened  stalls  and  located  Susanna.  He  pro- 
duced a  bruised  tomato,  leaned  over  the  half-door 
and  chirruped  coaxingly. 

Dawn  o'  Virginia's  daughter  accepted  the  gift. 

"Guess  I  won't  see  you  for  a  little  while,"  said 
the  Kid.     "Going  home  and  give  the  old  folks  a 


RIDERS  UP 


chance  to  bawl  me  out.  Funny  ll'le  world,  Su- 
sanna— and  a  guy  ain't  cuckoo  after  all  just 
because  he  gets  a  kick  out  of  them  'Arabian 
Nights.'  I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed  world  that  stuff 
is  good." 

The  winner  of  the  Dominion  Stakes  squashed 
her  gift  contentedly.  The  Kid  sighed,  and  pull- 
ing his  cap  more  firmly  over  his  eyes,  moved 
away. 

In  the  darkness  Susanna  nickered  softly. 


VII.     MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 

In  every  barn  they  tell  the  yarn 

From  Denver  to  the  Coast, 

And  every  lad  reputed  bad 

Enjoys  the  story  most. 

The  truth  is  old  as  pirates'  gold — 

The  worst  may  yet  arrive 

And  heroes  be — like  Runt  McGee — 

With  mud  and  ninety-five! 

Hearts  and  Hoofbeats. 

MOTHER  av  God,  will  ye  look  at  him 
now!" 

Lovln'  Rellly,  tired  of  his  pasture, 
was  stretching  an  equine  neck  over  Mrs.  Shan- 
non's back  fence,  and  nibbling  at  the  Sunday 
tablecloth. 

The  screen  door  flapped  open,  and  the  proprie- 
tor of  the  San  Ysidro  boarding  house,  her  fat 
arms  a-drip  with  soap  suds,  bulged  in  the  opening, 
one  red  hand  grasping  a  stick  of  kindling. 

"Rellly,  ye  dirty  limb  o'  Satan,  lave  be,  or  I'll 

— Saints  alive — take  that,  ye  bog-trottin'  divil!" 

The  stove  wood  hurtled  through  the  air  just 

as  Lovin'  Rellly  threw  up  his  head.     The  sudden 

195 


RIDERS  UP! 


movement  qualified  Mrs.  Shannon  as  an  expert 
marksman.  The  bay  gelding  snorted  with  pain, 
scrambled  out  of  range,  and  looked  back  re- 
proachfully. From  over  one  eye,  blood  trickled 
down  a  Roman  nose. 

*'  'At's  a-wingin'  him,  lady,"  complimented  the 
Sparrow,  "de  round  Ls  all  yourn!" 

But  Mrs.  Shannon  emitted  a  wail  of  contrition, 
and  went  clattering  down  the  stairs. 

"Reilly,  darlin',  forgive  me,"  she  shrilled. 
*'  'Twas  a  mistake,  d'ye  mind?  Sparrow,  ye  grin- 
ning monkey,  do  ye  get  me  a  towel  'til  I  fix  his 
poor  eye.     Aisy  now,  me  jewel!" 

Master  Patrick  Henry  McGee,  known  some- 
times as  "Runt"  McGee,  but  more  frequently  as 
the  Sparrow,  secured  for  his  landlady  the  desired 
towel,  which  was  promptly  plunged  in  cold  water, 
and  then  applied,  bandage  fashion,  to  the  victim's 
head.  Thus  equipped,  Lovin'  Reilly  suggested  a 
cross  between  the  Spirit  of  '76  and  an  advertise- 
ment for  headache  powders. 

"Lady,"  confided  the  Sparrow,  "if  ye  takes 
off  one  of  his  swingers  now,  and  parks  him  on  de 
sidewalk  wid  some  lead  pencils- " 

"Don't  be  insultin'  yer  betters,"  rebuked  Mrs. 
Shannon,  "but  at  that,  he  do  look  almost  human. 
Sure,  if  he  had  but  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  now,  who 
else  would  he  be  lookin'  like  but  me  own  husband, 

196 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


and  the  poor  lad  dead  now  these  two  years  come 
his  next  birthday.  I'm  that  lonely  I  could  be 
drownin'  this  whole  blltherin'  land  wid  me  tears, 
and  'tis  Judy  Shannon  that  says  It!" 

The  Sparrow  grinned  cheerfully. 

"Don't  do  nuttin'  like  dat,  lady,"  he  dis- 
suaded. "If  yer  ever  once  run  In  de  slop,  ye 
would  be  pullln'  wId  us  jocks  for  a  fast  track. 
Dere  ain't  nuttin'  worse  den  mud." 

Mrs.  Shannon  dried  her  eyes  on  her  apron, 
cast  another  maternal  glance  at  Lovin'  RelUy, 
and  resumed  her  place  at  the  washboard. 

"True  for  ye,"  she  grunted,  between  rubs. 
"But  'tis  nothin'  at  all  do  ye  know  about  mud  'tU 
ye  stay  here  av  a  winter.  Glory  be,  I've  seen  the 
slop  that  thick  If  ye  was  to  slip  on  the  walk  out- 
side, ye'd  be  after  picking  yerself  up  In  San  Diego 
tin  miles  away.  Will  ye  be  takin'  the  tough  little 
face  av  ye  on  the  road  now  and  boll  off  a  few 
pounds,  or  must  I  be  telling  your  boss?" 

"Huh,"  grunted  the  Sparrow,  "there  ain't  no 
jock  going  to  pick  up  weight  on  de  grub  what  you 
hand  out.  We  got  stew  t'ree  times  dis  week " 

"Ye  He  I"  said  Mrs.  Shannon.  "  'TIs  but  Tues- 
day we  had  hash,  and  'tis  better  than  ye  deserve. 
Do  ye  be  doln'  yer  road  work  now,  and  kape 
away  from  them  pool  rooms,  or  'tis  In  the  lock-up 
that  ye'll  find  yerself  again.     Out  wId  ye!" 

197 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  Sparrow  slid  off  the  wash  basket,  mum- 
bled an  oath  under  his  breath,  and  slouched 
toward  the  stairs,  pulling  a  cap  savagely  over  his 
dark  hair.  Mrs.  Shannon  stared  at  the  young- 
ster's sullen  shoulders,  and  rebellious  little  body. 

"Ah,  the  poor  lad,"  she  relented,  "Sparrow,  do 
ye  wait  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Shannon  trailed  into  the  corridor,  disap- 
peared a  moment  into  the  kitchen,  and  came  out 
with  a  handful  of  cookies.  "I'm  sorry  I  was 
hasty  wid  ye,  darlin',"  she  crooned.  "Don't  ye  be 
runnin'  too  hard  in  the  hot  sun  now,  and  put 
these  in  yer  pocket  in  case  the  little  stomach  av 
ye  grows  empty  before  lunch." 

"Never  mind  de  bull,"  said  the  Sparrow.  "If 
yer  wants  to  help  me  out,  lady,  yer  kin  slip  me  a 
coupl'a  thin  dimes  for  some  smokes.  None  of 
dese  kids  will  lend  me  dough,  and  my  credit  ain't 
as  good  as  it  might  be.  I  ain't  had  a  pill  since 
last  night." 

"Is  it  cigarettes  ye  be  wantin'?"  she  cried. 
"Divil  a  penny — but  wait,  I  do  be  rememberin' 
now  that  the  lad  who  was  sleepin'  in  number 
twinty,  and  who  wint  away  owin'  me  a  week's 
board,  left  behind  him  a  dirty  collar  and  seven 
cigarettes  with  cork  tips — ^bad  luck  to  him!  Do 
ye  wait  here." 

She  returned  in  a  moment  bearing  a  small 
198 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


square  box  which  the  Sparrow  clutched  hungrily. 

"T'anks,"  he  acknowledged,  "if  yer  t'inkin' 
of  startin'  Lovin'  Reilly  in  de  Billionaire  Stakes, 
and  yer  wants  a  high-class  jock,  look  me  over, 
lady.    I'll  ride  him  free!" 

Mrs.  Shannon's  ample  bosom  quaked  mirth- 
fully. 

"Don't  be  teasin'  an  ould  woman  now,"  she 
reproached,  "and  go  'long  with  ye !  Sure,  if  it 
wasn't  that  the  furniture  was  plastered  that  heavy 
with  mortgages  it  be  crackin'  under  its  own 
weight,  'tis  Lovin'  Reilly  that  would  be  still  tryin' 
his  luck  for  the  sake  of  poor  Danny  who  nursed 
him  from  a  bit  av  a  colt  on  Tiligraph  Hill.  Did 
I  tell  ye  there  was  a  dirty  Mexican  offered  me 
sivinty-five  dollars  for  Reilly,  and  I  busted  me 
broom  on  the  head  av  him?" 

The  Sparrow  took  himself  out  of  range  before 
he  voiced  his  farewell  comment. 

"Lady,  if  yer  believes  me,  dat  greaser  was 
tryin'  ter  slip  yer  some  soft  dough.  If  yer  sells 
that  horse  for  more'n  six  bits  Mexican,  de  cops 
will  be  droppin'  in  to  say  'Hello.'  " 

Mrs.  Shannon  lunged  forward,  and  the  Spar- 
row fled. 

Now,  this  passage-at-arms  between  a  buxom 
landlady  from  County  Clare  and  her  diminutive 
boarder  from  West  T'irty-seventh  Street,  Town 

199 


RIDERS  UP! 


of  the  Thousand  Tribes,  transpired  neither  in 
Ireland,  New  York,  Mexico,  nor  the  main  high- 
ways that  lie  between.  When  Uncle  Sam  drew 
with  his  boot  the  international  boundary  which 
separates  Baja  California  from  the  Golden  State, 
he  dropped  a  shoe  button  just  north  of  the  spot 
where  Aunt  Jane  used  to  sell  tomales,  and  the 
shoe  button  became  San  Ysidro.  It  lies  not  far 
from  America's  "Port  of  the  Sun,"  and  if  the 
yellow  man  ever  grapples  with  the  white,  the 
world  will  learn  a  great  deal  about  this  region. 
Until  then,  by  the  suffrance  of  the  Mexican 
authorities,  bang-tails  circle  a  mile  saucer  at 
Tijuana,  and  those  who  follow  the  thoroughbreds 
from  track  to  track,  may  find  themselves  in  much 
the  same  predicament  as  Lovin'  Reilly,  Mrs. 
Judy  Shannon,  and  "Runt"  McGee,  the  Sparrow 
of  the  turf,  all  of  whom  faced  in  San  Ysidro  prob- 
lems of  which  you  shall  hear. 

When  Danny  Shannon  took  the  fever  and  died, 
he  left  his  widow  three  corn-cob  pipes,  $17.20  and 
Lovin'  Reilly,  who  had  yet  to  see  the  inside  of  the 
winner's  circle,  though  he  had  been  racing  more 
or  less  regularly  since  he  was  a  two-year-old. 
Danny's  widow  applied  ten  dollars  to  a  requiem 
mass  at  San  Diego,  five  more  to  a  black  bonnet, 
and  expended  the  balance  on  a  tub  and  wash- 

200 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


board  with  which  she  ultimately  paid  the  funeral 
bill. 

The  following  season,  Mrs.  Shannon  began 
taking  In  boarders,  and  before  the  year  was  up 
she  had  seventeen  little  jockeys  under  her  mater- 
nal wing,  and  was  hovering  between  Paradise  and 
bankruptcy.  "Mother"  Shannon,  she  became, 
deep  of  bosom,  red  of  arm,  gray  hair  done  in  a 
round  knob  atop  her  head.  She  was  like  the 
old  woman  who  lived  In  a  shoe.  Distractedly  she 
scolded  her  children,  boxed  their  ears,  fed  them, 
and  wept  when  she  accepted  their  money. 

"Sure,  'tis  nivir  a  child  of  our  own  did  Danny 
and  I  have  at  all,  at  all,"  she  explained  to  Rodri- 
guez, the  grocer.  "Nivir  a  child  unless  it  be 
Lovin'  Reilly,  and  I  can't  be  takin'  a  horse  in  me 
arms,  d'ye  mind?  Two  sacks  of  thim  potatoes, 
and  I'll  see  can  that  boy  of  Dolan's  pay  his  bill 
to-morrow." 

It  happened  that  Dolan's  boy  had  patronized  a 
craps  game  and  squandered  his  wages,  shouting 
vainly:  "Eight-er  from  Decatur,  'at's  my  point!" 
Mother  Shannon  barred  him  from  the  dining 
room,  and  later  ran  four  blocks  down  the  street 
to  fetch  him  back. 

"  'Tis  foolishness  I  know,"  she  panted,  "but 
divil  a  bit  can  I  ate  whin  there's  an  Impty  chair 
at  the  table.     Sure,  unless  an  angel  from  hivin 

201 


RIDERS  UP! 


comes  to  the  rescue,  'tis  meself  and  Lovln'  Reilly 
will  go  over  the  hill  to  the  poorhouse.  Remem- 
ber that  now  and  take  the  pig's  face  av  ye  into 
the  dining  room!" 

When  Mother  Shannon  suggested  the  possi- 
bility of  an  angelic  visitation  to  her  neighborhood, 
she  plumbed  the  depths  of  improbability.  No 
self-respecting  seraph  would  ever  consider  San 
Ysidro  for  even  a  one-night  stand.  The  nearest 
approach  to  heavenly  visitors  were  the  represen- 
tatives of  the  Juvenile  Court  at  San  Diego,  who 
swooped  down  on  the  village  occasionally,  and 
sent  half  its  population  back  to  the  school-room. 
On  such  occasions,  it  became  the  custom  for  every 
apprentice  boy  and  youthful  swipe  to  claim  the 
protection  of  Mother  Shannon. 

"Must  sleep  ten  in  a  room  down  there,"  ob- 
served Probation  Officer  Cook;  "how  else  can  a 
two-story  house  have  seventy-nine  occupants?  I 
must  look  into  the  matter." 

"Faith!"  said  Mother  Shannon,  "is  it  my 
childer  you're  afther?  Sure  I've  lost  track  of 
the  count.  'Tis  either  sixteen  or  sivinty-two,  and 
iviry  last  one  of  thim  is  owin'  me  money.  'Twas 
but  yisterday  I  renewed  the  mortgage  on  the  roof 
over  me  head,  and  not  a  day  longer  than  six 
months  could  I  get.  What  with  the  rheumatism 
in  me  back,  and  nivir  a  cint  in  the  bureau  drawer, 

202 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


'tis  only  St.  Patrick  himself  knows  the  answer!" 

If  the  patron  saint  of  Erin  knew  the  solution 
to  Mrs.  Shannon's  financial  riddle  he  showed  no 
disposition  to  enlighten  his  admirer.  Instead, 
there  came  the  Sparrow  to  irritate  Mother  Shan- 
non with  his  impudence;  to  add  to  her  maternal 
worry  by  his  misbehavior;  to  partake  freely  of 
her  bounty  and  dodge  his  board  bill;  and  finally 
to  install  himself  more  or  less  permanently  as 
the  particular  pest  of  the  Shannon  fiock. 

He  had  crawled  out  of  a  box  car  one  morning 
and  introduced  himself  to  old  Man  Hogan  at 
the  track: 

"I'm  de  kid  wonder  of  de  yards,"  he  admitted, 
*'a  champion  wid  me  dukes,  and  I  kin  ride  like 
hell !  Come  in  second  at  Denver  with  Baby  Rose 
at  a  hundred  to  one,  outriding  Willie  Nelson  a 
nose  all  de  way!  Maybe  you  read  how  I  give 
Kid  Smith  twenty-eight  pounds  in  'Frisco,  and 
hung  it  on  his  chin  in  de  t'ird  roun'  ?  Dey  tells  me 
that  for  t'ree  blocks  guys  was  runnin'  out  on  de 
sidewalk  and  askin'  each  other  where  de  house 
fell  down  1  Look  me  over,  Mister ;  I  kin  ride  at 
ninety-five  and  I  pushes  'em  or  pulls  'em,  which 
ever  way  yer  bets." 

That  last  line  cost  him  a  job  with  Old  Man 
Hogan,  but  he  caught  on  with  Jim  Jennison,  who 
was  not  so  particular,  and  in  a  week  or  two  he 

203 


RIDERS  UP! 


was  booting  winners  under  the  wire  with  fair 
regularity.  Then  Jennison  put  him  aboard  a 
"sleeper"  with  a  ton  of  wise  money,  and  warned 
him  to  make  good.  The  Sparrow  did  his  best. 
He  bumped  the  favorite  at  the  start,  rode  three 
boys  into  the  fence,  cut  sharply  across  the  field 
at  the  last  turn,  and  did  everything  but  shoot  the 
last  horse  that  challenged  him.  He  finished  in 
front,  but  almost  every  jockey  in  the  race  climbed 
into  the  judge's  stand  with  a  protest,  and  the 
Jennison  horse  was  disqualified.  The  Sparrow 
got  four  weeks  on  the  ground  and  six  fights  as  a 
result  of  that  performance.  He  won  the  fights 
but  lost  his  job,  and  therefore  fell  back  upon 
Mother  Shannon,  the  haven  of  the  hungry  and 
oppressed.  During  the  period  of  his  suspension, 
he  had  time  to  get  into  more  trouble,  and  tax  the 
patience  of  Lovin'  Reilly's  mistre^.  Only  the 
fact  that  he  was  the  smallest  of  all  her  variegated 
brood  kept  the  Sparrow  from  being  turned  over 
to  the  county  authorities  by  his  landlady. 

"There's  thim  that's  bad,"  asserted  Mother 
Shannon,  "and  there's  thim  that's  worse,  but, 
Sparrow  darlin',  you  be  that  tough  ye'd  bite  the 
button  off  the  Divil's  own  tail!" 

"Ain't  It  the  trut'?"  said  the  Sparrow  com- 
placently. "Tell  ye  how  it  was,  lady:  Me  folks 
tried  to  make  six  little  gents  but  dey  overreached 

204 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


themselves.  De  first  of  me  brudders  was  O.  K., 
but  de  rest  of  us  was  de  bunk.  De  smaller  we  was 
de  tougher  we  come,  and  lady,  yer  now  lookln'  at 
de  family  runt!" 

Now,  the  pity  of  It  was  that  Mother  Shannon, 
with  plenty  of  winning  material  to  choose  from, 
should  center  her  maternal  solicitude  on  such  an 
impossible  pair  as  Lovin'  RelUy  and  Sparrow 
McGee.  In  the  estimation  of  the  turf,  Lovin' 
Rellly  was  a  "beetle,"  a  ''dog,"  a  "lizard,"  a  hun- 
dred-to-one shot  in  a  race  for  snails.  He  had  the 
heart  of  a  chicken,  and  the  pedigree  of  a  goat, 
and  his  record  gave  him  no  alibi.  Yet  Mother 
Shannon  would  not  have  traded  him  for  Man 
o'  War.     And  as  for  the  Sparrow 

"Wurrah,  don't  be  too  hard  on  him,"  she 
pleaded  with  ^Gene  Wolters,  who  had  charge  of 
the  special  police  at  the  track.  "Sure,  if  Danny 
hadn't  gone  and  died,  we  might  have  had  a  bye 
av  our  own,  and  he  might  have  been  worse  than 
this  lad.  Don't  be  reporting  him  to  the  stewards. 
Mister  Wolters,  and  I'll  be  askin'  ye  to  dinner 
nixt  Sunday.  He's  the  divil's  hind  hoof,  'tis 
true,  but  he's  that  small  'tis  me  mother's  heart 
that  aches  fer  him!" 

It  was  not  such  an  unhappy  household,  after 
all,  that  clustered  about  Mother  Shannon  in  the 
drowsy  drabness  of  San  Ysidro.     Willie  Heath, 

205 


RIDERS  UP! 


first  string  jockey  for  Hopkins,  could  wrench 
jazz  out  of  the  tin  piano  that  bulked  in  one  corner 
of  the  living  room.  Tony  Salazar,  fifteen-year- 
old  apprentice  boy  of  Dolan's,  had  the  voice  of  a 
meadow-lark,  and  "Swede"  Jensen,  who  rode  for 
Millionaire  Brady,  was  as  skilled  with  the  cornet 
as  he  was  with  dice.  There  were  others,  some 
of  them  youngsters  of  good  family,  who  wrote 
home  regularly;  some  of  them,  orphans  who  ac- 
cepted Mother  Shannon's  ministrations  with 
mixed  emotions.  There  was  much  horse-play 
with  newcomers;  riotous  arguments  over  the 
result  of  each  day's  races;  and  extraordinary 
predictions  of  what  the  morrow  would  bring 
forth.  The  Sparrow  was  responsible  for  a  large 
part  of  the  profanity  and  cigarette  butts,  and 
almost  all  of  the  fights.  He  stayed  out  after 
hours,  sheered  at  those  who  were  well-behaved, 
and  horned  his  way  into  every  quarrel.  He  even 
snarled  at  Mother  Shannon,  but  this  was  a  privi- 
lege he  reserved  for  his  own  muddy  little  self. 
One  day.  Chuck  Connelly  invited  the  landlady  to 
"go  take  a  jump  at  herself,"  and  the  Sparrow, 
outweighed  by  fifteen  pounds,  knocked  the  Water- 
ford  Stable  star  down  the  back  steps,  and  put 
him  on  the  sick-list  for  a  week. 

"Who  d'hell  d'ye  t'Ink  y'are?"  he  demanded, 
"handin'  out  de  old  raspberry  to  a  lady!" 

206 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


"G'wan,"  protested  the  discomfited  Chuck,  *'I 
heard  you  tell  her  lots  worse  than  that." 

"Dat's  all  right,"  the  Sparrow  told  him,  "dat's 
all  right!  De  old  lady  kin  stand  one  of  us  but 
no  more.  If  yer  get  rough  wid  Missus  Shannon, 
I  beats  yer  t'  deat',  see?" 

The  Sparrow's  term  of  suspension  ended,  and 
once  more  he  appeared  in  silks,  this  time  as  a 
free  lance,  but  as  cocky  as  ever. 

Meanwhile  the  hot  months  burned  away,  and 
Mother  Shannon  tolled  on,  a  worried,  clucking 
hen  with  an  amazing  brood  of  noisy  little  roosters 
always  getting  in  her  way. 

"Sure,  it's  happy  I  am  at  that,"  she  told  Spe- 
cial Officer  Swelgert.  "What,  with  Lovin'  Rellly 
to  nibble  at  me  chin  in  the  evenln's,  and  all  the 
childer  to  pester  me  in  the  mornin'.  But  Saints 
alive  I  'tis  the  bills  that  are  lookln'  me  In  the  face 
now,  and  the  mortgage  comin'  due.  Wan  av 
these  days  poor  old  Judy  will  take  Danny's  colt, 
and  walk  all  the  way  to  the  county  farm  to  stay 
forlvir  among  a  lot  of  Mexican  naygurs,  an'  'twill 
be  only  Lovin'  Rellly  to  care.  Whist,  'tis  after 
five  o'clock  and  me  byes  will  be  comIn'  home!" 

Then  came  the  first  rains,  heralding  the  winter 
months,  and  bringing  to  the  Shannon  household 
evil  days.  There  were  rumors  of  a  legal  fight 
for  control  of  the  track,   and  trouble  with  the 

207 


RIDERS  UP! 


Mexican  authorities.  There  was  even  a  hint  that 
the  meeting  might  be  cut  short  until  the  question 
of  ownership  was  decided.  In  the  face  of  this 
unsettled  situation,  firms  which  catered  to  the 
racing  trade  refused  further  credit,  and  began 
calling  in  their  loans.  The  Jockey  Club  tightened 
its  purse-strings,  and  owners  and  trainers  quietly 
laid  aside  get-away  money.  For  the  first  time 
since  she  had  opened  her  doors  to  the  little 
"hard-boots"  of  the  track,  Mother  Shannon 
found  her  credit  restricted  even  by  Rodriguez, 
the  grocer.  Collectors  came  more  and  more  fre- 
quently to  her  door.  One  after  another,  she 
sought  aid  from  the  youngsters  she  had  be- 
friended, but  they  had  learned  through  bitter 
experience  to  look  out  first  for  themselves. 

"  'Tis  the  end  av  the  world,"  she  told  the 
Sparrow;  "wan  month  from  to-day  they'll  be 
takin'  the  clothes  off  me  back  an'  selling  Lovin' 
Reilly  to  the  butcher.  Are  ye  turnin'  Mother 
Shannon  down  too,  lad?  Or  can  ye  spare  me  the 
price  av  a  quarter  av  beef?" 

The  Sparrow  hesFtated  only  a  moment.  Then 
his  instinct  for  heroics  overpowered  him.  He 
reached  into  a  trouser  pocket  and  fished  out  a  ten- 
dollar  bill. 

"Here  y'are,  lady,"  he  said  airily,  "don't 
bother  wid  dem  shoestring  jocks.     Any  time  yer 

208 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


wants  anything,  just  say  de  wold  to  de  Kid 
Wonder!" 

"May  the  angels  dance  at  your  wedding!" 
shrieked  Mother  Shannon.  "But,  Sparrow-darlin* 
— Glory  to  God! — can  ye  spare  it?" 

"Kin  I  spare  it?"  chirped  the  Sparrow.  "Why 
say,  lady,  what's  ten  meggs  between  friends? 
Nuttin'  at  all!  Tell  yer  another  t'ing:  I  was  In 
der  parlor  de  other  night  when  dat  guy  from  de 
law  office  was  servin'  notice  on  yer;  tellin'  yer 
how  he  was  foreclosin'  on  de  joint " 

"Was  ye  now?" 

"Surest  t'ing,  an'  say,  lady,  was  yer  ever  at  de 
the-ayter?" 

"Nivir  since  me  Danny  died,  God  rest  his 
soul!" 

"Well,  are  yer  wise  to  de  part  where  de  long 
lost  son  comes  plowin'  home  tru'  de  storm  wid 
all  de  kale  in  de  woild  and  helps  de  old  folks 
t'row  de  mortgage  In  de  fire?"  The  Sparrow 
threw  out  his  chest  and  tapped  himself  on  the 
wishbone.  "Dat's  me,  lady — I'm  de  guy  what 
saves  the  bacon  in  de  last  act.  All  yer  got  to  do 
Is  dim  de  lights  an'  tip  off  de  orchestra;  den  I 
come  in  like  dis — see?" 

The  Sparrow  tripped  across  the  porch  after 
the  fashion  of  a  ballet  dancer,  but,  unfortunately 
for   the   general   effect,   one   small   foot  encoun- 

209 


RIDERS  UP! 


tered  a  smear  of  soap  and  he  sat  down  with  a 
crash  that  shook  his  teeth.  He  arose  crestfallen, 
and  mindful  of  more  Immediate  needs. 

"Guess  yer  better  slip  me  a  coupla  dimes  outa 
dat  bill  for  some  smokes,"  he  suggested.  'Til 
lift  yer  old  mortgage  when  I  get  round  to  it." 

The  same  afternoon  the  Sparrow  blithely 
essayed  the  leading  role  In  that  Immortal  drama ; 
"Saving  the  Old  Homestead,"  He  had  the  leg 
up  on  Pretty  Pauline,  a  nervous,  long-limbed 
sprinter  who  was  rated  a  six-to-one  shot,  In  a 
seven-furlong  affair  for  three-year-olds  and  up. 
The  mare  had  been  shipped  down  from  Reno  and 
was  a  lot  better  than  she  had  shown  In  her  works. 

"Slap  twenty  bucks  on  her  nose  for  me,  will 
yer,  boss?"  he  said  to  her  owner.  "I  rides  better 
when  I  has  a  ticket  in  me  boot,  an'  if  I  lose,  yer 
can  take  it  out  of  me  princely  wages." 

Pretty  Pauline's  owner  accommodated  him, 
and  the  Sparrow  went  to  the  post  figuring  in  his 
busy  little  mind  just  how  he  could  pyramid  his 
winnings  in  Mother  Shannon's  behalf.  But  he 
hadn't  calculated  on  having  to  beat  the  assistant 
starter  as  well  as  the  field. 

More  things  transpire  on  a  race  track  than 
are  chronicled  in  the  newspapers,  and  many  a 
race  is  lost  at  the  start  rather  than  at  the  finish. 
"Whip"  Sears,  who  helped  Jake  Rawlings  "get 

210 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


'em  away"  at  the  barrier,  had  his  own  ideas  on 
the  subject  of  retributive  justice.  In  the  past, 
Runt  McGee  had  broken  up  many  a  well- 
arranged  start  by  wheeling  his  horse  the  wrong 
way  in  order  to  prolong  the  wait,  and  tire  out 
the  heavily  burdened  favorites.  That  meant  addi- 
tional work  for  Sears — more  dodging  in  and  out 
among  kicking  horses;  more  yanking  at  bridles; 
more  snarling  and  confusion.  Sears  cursed  the 
Sparrow  and  bided  his  time,  and  his  chance  came 
when  the  Runt  appeared  on  the  nervous  Pretty 
Pauline. 

It  was  the  one  time  when  the  Sparrow  was 
really  behaving  himself  at  the  post,  because  the 
mare  was  a  quick  breaker  and  she  had  the  rail 
position.  But  "Whip"  Sears  first  startled  her 
with  the  lash,  and  then  yanked  savagely  at  the 
bridle.  Just  as  the  rest  of  the  field  moved  into 
line,  the  assistant  starter  whirled  the  mare  side- 
ways, pretended  to  straighten  her  out  again,  and 
— as  the  barrier  shot  up —  he  pulled  her  out  of 
stride.  Ten  lengths  to  the  good,  the  favorite  led 
the  field  past  the  quarter  pole.  It  was  asking  too 
much  of  any  selling  plater  to  overcome  that  lead, 
but  the  Sparrow  came  so  near  to  performing  a 
miracle  that  the  backers  of  the  favorite  would 
have  torn  up  their  tickets,  had  the  wire  been  fifty 
yards  further.     He  gave  the  mare  a  nice  Intelli- 

211 


RIDERS  UP! 


gent  ride  with  an  amazing  finish,  and  Pretty 
Pauline  just  did  fail  to  get  up.  That  was  the  last 
race  of  the  day. 

The  Sparrow  shed  his  gaudy  silks,  tore  up  his 
ticket,  dressed  and  went  in  search  of  "Whip" 
Sears.  He  located  the  assistant  starter  at  the 
paddock,  and  began  hostilities  by  crowning  him 
with  a  piece  of  3x3  scantling.  Then  he  bit  his 
way  out  of  a  clinch,  and  was  industriously  kicking 
his  opponent's  shins,  when  a  special  officer  spot- 
ted the  fracas. 

The  Sparrow  might  have  saved  himself  by  lay- 
ing the  facts  before  the  stewards  and  appealing  to 
"Honest  Jake"  Rawlings  to  substantiate  his 
claim,  but  the  youngster's  code  forbade  "squeal- 
ing," and  required  that  he  settle  his  feuds  unaided. 

"You  again,  eh?"  said  the  stern  Judge  Thomas. 
"Well,  I  warned  you  the  last  time  not  to  be 
brought  before  me  any  more.  You're  a  hoodlum 
and  a  disgrace  to  the  sport.     License  revoked!'* 

The  Sparrow's  pert  face  blanched.  He  thought 
of  Mother  Shannon. 

"Yer  mean  fer  life,  Judge?" 

Something  in  the  boy's  quavering  voice  won 
him  a  sharp  glance  from  under  uplifted  eyebrows. 
Judge  Thomas  pursed  his  lips  and  looked  down 
at  the  mite  of  humanity  standing  before  him,  cap 

212 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


in  hand.  Then  he  recalled  that  superb  finish  on 
Pretty  Pauline. 

"Hell's  fire,  no  I"  he  said  gruffly,  "when  you 
think  you've  learned  your  lesson  come  around 
and  apply  for  reinstatement.  But  stay  away 
from  the  park  for  three  weeks  anyway.  By  that 
time,  we  all  may  have  to  pull  up  stakes." 

Special  Officer  Sweigert,  six  foot  one,  escorted 
the  Sparrow  to  the  south  gate,  and  expelled  him 
with  an  admonitory  cuf^. 

"Lucky  for  you,  it  wasn't  me  that  was  doing 
it,"  the  officer  told  him,  "or  I'd  have  sent  you 
to  jail." 

"Aw,  go  wash  yer  neck!"  suggested  the  Spar- 
row, and  when  he  had  reached  a  safe  distance, 
he  expressed  his  further  sentiments  by  throwing 
rocks.  Plodding  back  to  San  Ysidro,  his  shoul- 
ders hunched,  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  feet 
kicking  up  the  dust  resentfully,  the  smallest  of 
the  McGees  was  perilously  close  to  admitting 
defeat. 

"What  chanct  has  a  kid  got  to  be  a  gent,"  he 
mumbled,  "when  dey  let  a  guy  pull  de  horse  right 
out  from  under  him?  Say,  ain't  it  de  trut'  now? 
Dey  wouldn't  a  known  which  way  we  went,  if  dat 
crook  hadn't  clamped  his  meal  hooks  on  us. 
Well,  de  Kid  Wonder  was  just  a  nose  short  a 
reachin'  de  golden  stairs.    T'ree  weeks,  de  Judge 

213 


RIDERS  UP! 


says — and  den  I  has  ter  lick  his  boots.     Huh!" 

Mother  Shannon  was  just  shooing  another  col- 
lector off  the  front  steps,  when  the  Sparrow  hove 
in  sight. 

*'Is  it  yerself,  darlin'?"  she  cried.  *'Come  in 
the  back  way,  an'  I'll  bolt  up  all  the  doors  an' 
windys.  Thim  bloodthirsty  collictors  are  that 
thick,  even  the  chiny-ware  ain't  safe.  Sure, 
they'll  be  carryin'  off  the  hot  stove  with  me  own 
dinner  on  it!       Did  ye  win  to-day?" 

The  Sparrow  scowled  in  the  direction  of  the 
retreating  collector. 

"Me  foot  slipped,"  he  acknowledged,  "but 
lady,  I  ain't  t'ru  yet.  I  banged  a  guy  in  de  snoot, 
and  dey  handed  me  t'ree  weeks'  vacation  widout 
pay.     Whada  ye  t'ink  a  dat?" 

This  bad  news,  coming  on  the  heels  of  her  own 
distress,  and  the  fact  that  Lovin'  Reilly  had  only 
that  morning  showed  symptoms  of  colic,  opened 
the  flood-gates  on  Mother  Shannon's  cataract  of 
sorrow.  She  collapsed  on  the  steps,  threw  her 
apron  over  her  head,  and  howled.  Half  a  block 
distant,  two  mechanics  at  work  in  a  garagej 
dropped  their  tools  and  sallied  out  on  the  side- 
walk.   The  Sparrow  was  alarmed. 

**Nix,  nix,  lady,"  he  entreated,  "cut  it  out! 
Dey'll  t'ink  I'm  beating  ye  up." 

This  extraordinary  suggestion  proved  effective. 
214 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


Mother  Shannon's  two  hundred  pounds  gradually 
achieved  an  undulating  silence,  and  she  looked 
once  more  at  her  diminutive  boarder.  The  down- 
street  audience  returned  to  work. 

*'Dat's  better,"  complimented  the  Sparrow, 
"dat's  a  lot  better.  No  use  ringin'  for  de  morgue 
'til  somebody's  croaked." 

*'An'  who's  to  kape  us  alive,  darlin'?  Tell  me 
that  now!  It's  dead  av  starvation  we'll  all  be 
in  a  week.  Nothin'  for  Lovin'  Reilly  to  ate  but  a 
lot  of  Mexican  bananas.  'Tis  no  wonder  he's  got 
the  cramps!" 

The  Sparrow  hopped  up  the  steps  and  patted 
Mother  Shannon's  shoulder  with  the  dignity  of 
a  floorwalker,  and  all  the  sublime  assurance  of 
a  traffic  cop. 

"Have  no  fear,  lady,"  he  counselled,  "have  no 
fear!  Yer  under  my  protection.  All  yer  gotta 
to  is  sit  back  and  enjoy  de  show!" 

"The  Saints  preserve  us!"  cried  Mother  Shan- 
non, "will  ye  listen  to  what's  talkin' !  Him  that 
ain't  no  bigger  than  a  flea.  Take  a  look  at  Reilly, 
in  the  mornin',  darlin',  and  see  can  ye  tell  what  to 
do  for  him." 

The  next  day  after  breakfast  the  Sparrow 
sauntered  into  the  adjoining  lot  and  studied  with 
professional  interest  the  six  year  old  non-winner. 

Lovin'  Reilly's  stomach  muscles  were  twitching 
215 


RIDERS  UP! 


and  he  looked,  if  possible,  a  little  more  discon- 
solate than  ever. 

''Some  dog,"  commented  the  small  veterinarian, 
"If  I  was  ter  show  him  a  sausage,  I  t'Ink  he'd 
bark!" 

The  Sparrow  went  back  to  Mother  Shannon 
and  reported  his  conclusions  facetiously: 

"Lady,  yer  friend  Is  afflicted  wid  de  wolms. 
Tell  yer  what  I'll  do,  just  t'  show  yer  me  heart's 
pure  gold:  I'll  take  de  noble  beast  fer  a  workout, 
an'  give  him  some  of  dat  long  grass  down  by  de 
river." 

"God  love  ye!"  said  Mother  Shannon. 

That  was  how  Sparrow  McGee  and  Lovin* 
Rellly  happened  to  be  five  miles  from  home  when 
that  November  cloudburst  put  the  railroad  out 
of  commission  for  sixteen  hours,  and  converted 
the  vicinity  of  San  Ysldro  into  a  topographical 
mud  pie.  The  Sparrow  headed  for  shelter  when 
the  first  huge  rain  drops  pelted  down,  but  the  bay 
gelding  had  carried  him  only  half  a  mile,  when 
the  road  ahead  of  them  melted  into  a  squashy 
yellow  porridge  and  earth  and  sky  were  linked  by 
a  sheet  of  water. 

"Hump  yerself,  old  kid,"  the  boy  gasped.  "In 
another  minute,  we'll  be  neck  and  neck  wid  de 
fishes." 

Lovin'  Reilly  seemed  to  appreciate  the  neces- 
216 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


sity  for  exerting  himself.  His  awkward  stride 
increased,  and  twin  sprays  of  mud  shot  up  on 
either  side.  The  Sparrow  drummed  with  his  heels 
on  the  gelding's  ribs. 

"Hey,  turn  yerself  loose,"  he  implored. 

Whether  or  not  Lovin'  Reilly  would  have  re- 
sponded to  this  entreaty  unaided,  the  Sparrow  was 
never  destined  to  know.  Suddenly,  the  air  was 
ripped  open  by  a  bolt  of  lightning — and  not  two 
hundred  yards  distant — a  scrub  oak  dropped  in 
a  blue  flame.  A  thunder  clap  like  the  crack  of 
doom,  and  Lovin'  Reilly  jumped  twenty  feet.  He 
came  down  on  his  toes  with  the  bit  between  his 
teeth,  and  in  another  second  the  Sparrow's  hands 
and  heels  and  knees  were  clinging  desperately  to 
an  equine  comet.  Three  quarters  of  a  mile  distant 
where  the  road  split  on  a  hummock,  boy  and  horse 
parted  company,  Lovin'  Reilly  proceeding  straight 
on,  and  the  Sparrow  performing  a  tail-spin  in  the 
general  direction  of  Manuel  Garcia's  cantaloupe 
patch. 

Being  thrown  from  a  horse  was  no  new  experi- 
ence for  the  Sparrow.  He  lit  in  a  puddle  on  his 
shoulders,  rolled  over  three  times  and  came  up, 
coated  with  mud  but  unharmed.  Lovin'  Reilly 
was  disappearing  eastward  in  a  desperate  attempt 
to  outrun  his  shadow. 

I      The  Sparrow  scrambled  across  the  road,  and 

217 


RIDERS  UP! 


into  the  shelter  of  a  barn.  There  he  sat  down 
on  a  cultivator,  and  remained  for  two  hours, 
rolling  one  cigarette  after  another,  and  consum- 
ing them  thoughtfully.  When  the  storm  had 
passed,  he  splashed  homeward  and  discovered  that 
Lovin'  Reilly,  yellow  as  a  Chinaman,  had  arrived 
there  considerably  in  advance  of  schedule. 

*'It's  an  hour  I've  been  on  me  knees  prayin'  for 
the  soul  av  ye !"  cried  Mother  Shannon  from  the 
back  porch.  *'In  Hivin's  name  stay  out  in  th' 
back  yard  now  'till  I  turn  the  hose  on  ye !" 

The  Sparrow  compromised  by  disrobing  in  the 
basement,  and  borrowing  fresh  attire  from  Tony 
Salazar.  He  was  singularly  mum  on  the  subject 
of  his  adventure,  so  much  so  that  Mother  Shan- 
non wanted  to  give  him  a  physic  in  the  firm  belief 
that  he  was  ill. 

"Aw,  I'm  just  finkin\'*  he  remonstrated. 
*'Can't  yer  let  a  guy  t'ink  once  in  a  while?" 

After  lunch,  he  wandered  to  the  little  barn  in 
the  back  yard,  and  undertook  another  examina- 
tion of  Lovin'  Reilly.  He  ran  his  hands  thought- 
fully over  the  heavy  shoulders  and  quarters,  and 
then  looked  curiously  at  the  gelding's  feet.  They 
were  small  and  compact.  Lovin'  Reilly's  hoofs 
appeared  to  interest  the  Sparrow  immensely. 
Finally,  the  youngster  returned  to  the  house,  and 
borrowed  a  dope  book  from  "Swede"  Jensen.  He 

218 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


spent  the  balance  of  the  afternoon  thumbing 
pages,  and  analyzing  the  past  performances  of  an 
awkward  bay  gelding  that  had  never  known  the 
winner's  circle.  At  length  he  laid  the  book  aside, 
rolled  a  cigarette,  and  summed  up  aloud  the  prob- 
lem as  he  saw  it. 

**De  idea  is  just  dis:  de  old  lady  has  a  jack- 
rabbit  dat  ain't  never  won  nuthin'  better  than  an 
argument  over  oats.  All  right,  I  takes  him  out  fer 
a  little  breezin',  and  we  gets  caught  in  de  world's 
champion  t'understorm.  From  a  fast  track,  de 
goin'  gets  muddy.  Den  comes  a  bit  of  firewoiks, 
and  dis  rabbit  gets  away  from  de  post  in  one  jump. 
Now  de  Kid  Wonder  on  his  back  can  judge  pace 
as  well  as  any  other  jock.  We  made  a  half  mile 
in  .49,  and  no  guy  can  tell  me  different.  More 
than  dat,  dis  skate  wasn't  weakenin'  none,  when  I 
last  seen  him.  He  had  de  old  tail  down  fer  six 
furlongs  anyway." 

The  Sparrow  mused  a  moment,  and  then  con- 
tinued his  soliloquy:  *'Dat  plug  never  enjoyed 
himself  'til  de  lightnin'  come;  dat  means  he  likes 
ter  finish  under  der  whip.  But  dey've  used  the 
bat  on  him  before,  so  dat  ain't  de  only  t'ing.  Well 
den  we  look  around  some  more,  and  we  get  wise  to 
de  fac'  dat  dis  dog  runs  on  de  old  toes;  dat 
means  he  don't  slip  in  de  slop,  but  it  hurts  him 
to  run  on  a  hard  track.     Den  we  sees  he  has 

219 


RIDERS  UP! 


small  hoofs;  dat  means  he  don't  pick  up  de  mud; 
and,  bein'  a  dog,  he  don't  quit  so  quick  when  de 
Runt  is  ridin'  him  widout  a  pound  a  lead  in  de 
saddle.  Wot's  de  answer?  Yer  had  it  right  de 
foist  time :  Mud  an^  ninety-five  pounds.  Go  to 
de  head  a  yer  class,  Kid — ^yer  a  wonder  1" 

A  rainbow  of  hope  chased  all  the  gloom  from  ■i 
the  Sparrow's  sullen  little  face,  but  in  another  mo- 
ment the  clouds  reappeared,  for  he  recalled  that 
he  was  both  broke  and  barred  from  the  track. 

"Ain't  dat  always  de  way?"  he  sighed.  "Here 
I  has  a  swell  idea  for  helpin'  a  lady  in  distress, 
and  me  entry  is  declined.  If  it  was  rainin'  dol- 
lars, I'd  get  bot'  eyes  put  out  wid  de  first  two 
drops.  But  I  ain't  t'ru  yet;  de  Kid  Marvel  is  still 
in  de  runnin'." 

Despite  the  Sparrow's  unwavering  faith  in  him- 
self, the  ensuing  fortnight  marked  the  decline  of 
the  Shannon  prospects  into  the  bottomless  pit  of 
despair.  The  Tijuana  Jockey  Club  announced  that 
the  meeting  would  close  shortly  until  the  question 
of  ownership  had  been  decided.  The  big  stables 
began  to  move  out,  and  Mother  Shannon's  board- 
ers, one  after  another,  took  their  belongings  out 
of  reach  of  the  sheriff.  The  Sparrow  made  no 
comment,  but  every  afternoon,  he  saddled  Lovin' 
Reilly  and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
muddy  road  that  paralleled  the  river.     He  came 

220 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


back  one  evening  to  learn  that  a  judgment  had 
been  secured  against  his  landlady,  and  a  writ 
of  attachment  on  her  remaining  belongings  was 
about  to  be  issued.  The  same  night  he  went  to 
San  Diego,  and  located  Judge  Thomas  at  the 
Grant  Hotel. 

"Yer  told  me  t'  come  back,  Judge,  when  I  was 
ready  t'  kiss  de  flag,"  he  reminded,  "Well,  I'm 
here.  If  yer  lets  me  off  de  ground  just  onct,  be- 
fore de  meetin'  blows,  I  gives  yer  me  woid  I  won't 
never  start  no  more  roughhouges." 

Judge  Thomas  rubbed  his  chin  reflectively. 

"Who  are  you  riding  for,  my  boy?" 

The  Sparrow  hesitated.  "I  was  t'inkin'  of 
takin'  a  mount  for  a  lady  friend  what's  outa  luck," 
he  confessed.  "Be  a  sport,  Judge,  an'  take  a 
chanct  wid  me,  will  yer?  Honest  t'  God,  I'll  do 
de  right  t'ing,  and  I  ain't  never  said  dat  before. 
I " 

The  Sparrow's  plea  was  interrupted  by  a  spell 
of  violent  coughing. 

"All  right,"  said  Judge  Thomas,  "I'll  see  that 
you're  given  one  more  chance,  but  you've  got  a 
pretty  bad  cold,  my  boy.  You  shouldn't  go  run- 
ning around  In  this  rain.  Better  go  home  now 
and  go  to  bed.    Where  are  you  living?" 

"At  Missus  Shannon's.     De  old  lady's  down 

221 


RIDERS  UP! 


and  out,  Judge — they're  gonna  take  de  furniture 
away  in  a  coupla  days." 

"Too  bad,"  commiserated  Judge  Thomas. 
"Danny's  widow.  Isn't  It?  Gold  Harp  on  a  green 
field, — I  remember  the  colors.  What  became  of 
that  old  hound  they  brought  down  here?" 

"Yer  mean  Lovin'  Reilly?"  said  the  Sparrow, 
slowly.  "Why,  he's  been  in  de  ol'  pickle  vat 
waitin'  for  a  wise  guy  t'  come  along  and  dig  him 
up.  Judge,  if  it's  ralnln'  Tuesday,  kin  I  bring 
him  out?" 

Judge  Thomas*  shoulders  twitched  with  sup- 
pressed merriment.  "Good  Lord!"  he  com- 
mented. "Oh,  all  right,  let  the  old  lady  have 
her  way.  I  suppose  she'll  get  a  kick  out  of  seein' 
the  colors  again.  But  look  here.  Kid — you'd 
better  take  care  of  that  cold." 

"T'anks,"  said  the  Sparrow.  "As  soon  as  I 
performs  me  duty,  I'll  be  all  right." 

Two  days  later,  he  discovered  In  the  overnight 
entries  that  which  he  sought — a  six  furlong  sell- 
ing race  for  three-year-olds  and  up.  The  claiming 
price  was  set  at  five  hundred  dollars  and  the 
assigned  weights  were  seventeen  pounds  below  the 
scale.  That  meant  105  pounds  for  a  six-year-old 
gelding.  It  was  still  too  much  of  an  Impost,  and 
the  Sparrow  did  a  rapid  bit  of  thinking.  Then 
he  recalled  that  in  a  race  of  this  kind,  he  was  en- 

222 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


titled  to  five  pounds  off  for  each  one  hundred  dol- 
lars below  the  specified  valuation.  Thereupon  he 
entered  Lovin'  Reilly,  with  a  sale  price  against 
him  of  only  three  hundred  dollars,  and  thus 
achieved  the  desired  weight  of  ninety-five  pounds. 

"Nobody'd  claim  dat  dog  for  six-bits,"  he  rea- 
soned. "If  we  comes  down  In  front,  every  guy 
what's  got  any  dough  will  drop  dead.  Well,  de 
orchestra  is  all  set,  and  de  blue  lights  is  comin' 
on.  To-morrow  I  comes  prancin'  home  wid  de 
beans,  or  de  show  is  a  flivver." 

But  Mother  Shannon,  ignorant  entirely  of  the 
Sparrow's  ambitious  plans,  heard  the  boy  cough- 
ing all  through  the  night,  and  she  padded  Into 
his  room  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  find  his 
teeth  chattering,  and  his  forehead  hot  to  the 
touch. 

"Holy  Mother!"  she  cried,  "keep  under  the 
covers  now,  'til  I  run  out  for  th'  docter!" 

"Docter,  hell!"  chattered  the  Sparrow,  "I 
gotta  date  wid  Rellly  over  at  the  track  dis  after- 
noon, and  if  dis  rain  keeps  up,  don't  let  nobody 
tell  yer  I  ain't  gonna  be  there  I" 

"Hould  yer  tongue!"  shrilled  Mother  Shan- 
non. "NIver  a  foot  d'ye  put  out  av  the  bed  all 
day,  even  if  it's  Judy  Shannon  that  has  to  be 
sittin'  on  the  chest  av  ye.  Niver  wan  foot — mind 
that,  now!" 

223 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  Sparrow  groaned  and  made  no  further  at- 
tempt to  debate  the  matter.  He  submitted  to  the 
doctor's  examination  In  sullen  silence,  and  with 
the  stoicism  of  a  martyr  permitted  Mother  Shan- 
non to  apply  a  mustaj-d  plaster  to  his  chest.  Later 
in  the  morning,  he  was  resting  so  quietly  that  the 
landlaciy  deemed  it  safe  to  ride  in  to  San  Diego 
and  see  if  she  could  obtain  two  dollars  and  a  half 
on  the  coral  brooch  that  had  been  in  the  family 
for  a  century.  It  was  the  only  way  she  knew  of 
securing  the  medicine  the  doctor  had  ordered. 
But,  first,  suspicious  of  the  Sparrow  as  the  result 
of  long  experience,  she  took  all  his  clothes  and 
locked  them  in  her  room,  making  sure  that  every 
garment  in  the  house  was  under  lock  and  key  be- 
fore she  left. 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  with  the 
rain  faUing  harder  than  ever,  when  Mrs.  Shan- 
non returned.  In  the  downstairs  hall  she  encoun- 
tered a  figure  in  a  nightgown.  It  was  not  the 
Sparrow. 

"Is  it  you,  Willie  Cunningham?"  she  cried. 
"Heaven  take  us!  Aren't  ye  ashamed  to  be 
trapezing  around  this  time  a-day  like  that.  'Tis 
an  ondacint  child " 

"Say,"  interrupted  Willie,  "I'm  not  rigged  out 
like  this  for  fun.  The  Sparrow  knocked  me  down 
and  swip^  all  my  duds  and  two  dollars.    What's 

224 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


the  big  Idea  of  locking  all  the  rooms?    Is  the  joint 
pinched?" 

Mother  Shannon  disdained  reply.  She  was  al- 
ready puffing  up  the  stairs  to  confirm  with  her 
own  eyes  the  Implication  that  the  Sparrow  was 
gone.  When  she  returned  she  was  out  of  both 
breath  and  Imprecations. 

"Willie  Cunningham,  tell  me  where  he  wint, 
or  I'll  wring  the  ears  av  ye  clane  off  !" 

Willie  was  too  angry  to  be  choice  In  his  lan- 
guage. 

"Where  the  hell  do  you  think  he  went?  Ain't 
he  down  to  ride  Lovin'  Rellly  in  the  third  race, 
and  didn't  I  tell  you  he  wrassled  my  clothes  off, 
and  hooked  the  last  two  bones  I  had  in  the  world? 
Get  me  some  clothes  out  of  Tony's  room,  and  I'll 
sic'  the  cops  on  the  little  stinker." 

Mother  Shannon  collapsed  Into  a  rocker,  and 
wrung  her  hands  In  an  ecstasy  of  alarm.  Finally, 
she  managed  to  stagger  desperately  to  her  feet 
and  to  seize  her  umbrella  and  shawl.  She  threw 
a  key  at  the  scantily-clad  figure  in  front  of  her. 

"Jump  into  some  clothes,  lad — and  run  down 
to  the  store.  See  can  yer  get  Father  Donovan  on 
the  tiliphone,  and  thin  the  doctor.  Quick  darlin' 
or  I'll  brain  ye!" 

Willie  clutched  the  key. 

"Where  you  goin'?"  he  demanded. 
225 


RIDERS  UP 


Mother  Shannon's  trembling  fingers  were  busy 
with  her  bonnet.  "Where  Use  should  I  go,"  she 
walled,  "but  after  my  own  darlln'  lad  who's  out 
av  his  head  wid  the  fever?  Lovin'  Reilly  too,  ye 
say?  Oh,  God  be  merciful!  An'  I  pawned  me 
brooch  fer  medicine!     Run,  ye  little  divil!" 

A  jitney  bus,  ploughing  through  mud  and  rain, 
deposited  Mother  Shannon  at  Tijuana,  half  an 
hour  later.  She  had  not  the  price  of  admission, 
but  by  the  simple  expedient  of  walloping  a  ticket 
collector  over  the  head  with  her  umbrella,  she 
attracted  first  the  attention  and  then  the  sympathy 
of  Chief  Special  Officer  'Gene  Wolters. 

"Come  right  along  with  me,  Mrs.  Shannon," 
he  invited.  "Out  of  his  head  with  fever,  you  say? 
Well,  we'll  go  right  over  to  the  jockey  room,  and 
pick  him  up!" 

Through  a  forest  of  umbrellas  and  raincoats, 
the  owner  of  Lovin'  Reilly  elbowed  her  way  in 
the  wake  of  the  officer,  only  to  find  that  horses  and 
riders  for  the  third  race  had  already  been  called 
to  the  paddock.  Thither  they  turned,  worming  a 
wet  trail  through  thousands  of  spectators  who 
were  seeking  shelter  from  the  storm.  Once  more, 
they  were  too  late.  Before  they  had  reached  the 
sawdust  enclosure,  a  bugle  sounded  the  call  to 
post,  and  a  string  of  eight  horses  splashed  out  into 
the  mud,  their  riders  bending  their  heads  against 

226 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


the  scourging  rain.  Mrs.  Shannon  lowered  her 
umbrella  and  plunged  toward  the  railing.  Last 
in  the  vanishing  procession,  she  made  out  a  bay 
horse,  and  a  midget  wearing  a  faded  green  blouse 
with  a  gold  harp  embroidered  on  the  shoulders. 

"Come  back  here,  ye  little  divil!"  she  shrilled. 
"Sparrow,  darlin' — Sparrow!  Oh,  Mother  of 
God,  he's  past  hearin'  me!'^ 

'Gene  Wolters  clutched  Mother  Shannon's  arm 
and  dragged  her  back  under  cover. 

"Come  up  here  by  the  finish,"  he  directed. 
"They'll  be  back  In  a  minute,  and  then  I'll  grab 
him  for  you.  No  use  us  getting  pneumonia,  too. 
I  should  have  known  the  boy  was  out  of  his  head, 
taking  a  mount  on  a  six-year-old  maiden.  Right 
in  here,  lady — this  Is  as  good  a  place  as  any." 

They  edged  their  way  into  the  crowd  gathered 
below  the  official  press  stand.  In  front  of  them, 
a  huge  bed  of  umbrellas  stretched  to  the  rail. 
Beyond  lay  the  track,  with  the  Infield  a  miniature 
lake,  and  the  back  stretch  almost  hidden  by  the 
storm. 

"Won't  be  long  before  I  have  that  kid  by  the 
collar,"  soothed  the  officer. 

"Hould  yer  tongue!"  rebuked  Mother  Shan- 
non. "  'Tis  only  me  prayers  that  can  help  him 
now  I" 

With  a  faded  shawl  drawn  over  her  bonnet  and 
227 


RIDERS  UP! 


pinned  securely  under  her  generous  chin,  the  dis- 
possessed proprietor  of  the  San  Ysidro  boarding 
house  turned  her  face  to  the  sky.  Her  lips  moved 
in  a  plea  for  the  safe  delivery  of  Lovin'  Reilly 
and  the  Sparrow. 

Five  minutes  passed,  with  the  silent  thousands 
staring  off  into  the  rain  at  a  squirming,  twisting 
nest  of  horseflesh  opposite  the  quarter  pole.  A 
confused  shout  arose  from  those  nearest  the 
railing. 

"They're  off!"  said  Officer  Wolters. 

Mother  Shannon  gave  no  heed.  Her  maternal 
heart  was  vibrating  in  a  far  different  cause.  On 
the  wind-swept,  gray  horizon,  a  blur  of  muddy 
dots  swept  onward,  stringing  out  and  then  bunch- 
ing again,  like  birds  before  the  hunter.  One  after 
another,  the  quarter  poles  were  negotiated,  and 
then  the  far  turn  brought  its  hush  of  suspense  to 
the  waiting  multitude.  Then  the  murmur  rose,- 
and  pulses  began  to  quicken. 

A  beefy-faced  individual  mounted  on  a  cracker 
box,  wiped  his  glasses,  and  elevated  them. 

"They're  into  the  stretch,"  he  reported.  "Gosh, 
they're  all  the  same  color  today,  boys;  it  would 
take  a  better  man  than  me  to  call  'em!  Gee- 
rusalem !    What's  that  finishing  under  the  whip?" 

"Captain  Ace,"  said  a  betting  commissioner. 
"They're  going  to  get  him,  too!     He'll  dog  it 

228 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


when  he  hits  the  paddock.     There's  your  winner 
on  the  outside.     Secret  Silver  cashes!" 

Through  the  gray  curtain  of  storm,  the  field 
burst  into  view,  and  the  gathered  thousands  gave 
tongue.  Plastered  with  mud,  one  horse  was 
desperately  leading  the  way.  A  scant  length  be- 
hind, two  others  were  coming  up  fast,  one  on  the 
rail,  the  other  on  the  outside.  They  challenged 
the  leader  at  the  saddling  paddock,  and  for  a 
margin  of  seconds.  It  was  a  toss-up,  with  pande- 
monium in  the  stands.  Then  the  confused  shout- 
ing merged  Into  a  spontaneous  tribute  to  the  boy 
on  Captain  Ace.  Never  since  the  days  of  Snap- 
per Garrison  had  a  racing  crowd  beheld  such  har- 
mony of  heels  and  whip  and  arms  and  knees.  It 
was  ding-dong,  hammer  and  tongs,  hell  and  lather. 
Twenty  yards,  and  the  leader  still  held  to  his 
scant  advantage,  another  twenty — and  the  rail 
horse  fell  back  beaten.  Then  the  remaining  chal- 
lenger gave  It  up.  A  huge  heavy-shouldered 
brute,  yellow  with  mud,  came  floundering  on, 
his  hooded  head  bobbing  in  harmony  with  the 
ninety-five  pound  demon  who  rode  him. 

A  vocal  blast  of  astonishment  smote  the  air. 
The  beefy-faced  man  howled  at  his  nearest  neigh- 
bor: 

''Captain  Ace  don't  run  in  blinkers—^  Who 
the  hell?" 

229 


RIDERS  UP! 


But  Officer  Wolters  caught  both  the  saddle 
number  of  the  winner,  as  he  shot  under  the  wire, 
and  the  incredulous  yells  from  upstairs.  He  came 
to  life  with  the  bellow  of  a  bull,  and  reached  for 
Mother  Shannon.  Roughly,  he  interrupted  the 
litany. 

"This  way  to  the  winner's  circle,"  he  roared. 
*'Lovin'  Reilly  and  Sparrow  McGee — all  by 
themselves !  This  way,  lady — this  way !  Get  out 
of  our  road,  everybody!" 

And  Mother  Shannon,  hysterically  uncertain 
of  what  it  was  all  about,  fought  her  way  to  the 
gate  that  leads  on  to  the  track, — and  when  the 
Sparrow's  muddy,  feverish  little  body  had  been 
weighed  by  the  clerk  of  the  scales,  and  the  victory 
approved — took  the  lad  in  her  own  red  arms — 
and  even  Judge  Thomas  descended  from  his  stand 
to  investigate  all  the  excitement. 

This  explains  how  Mother  Shannon,  accom- 
panied by  the  official  club  physician,  and  Officer 
Wolters,  came  to  be  driven  home  in  Judge 
Thomas'  limousine  with  a  delirious  youngster 
still  in  jockey  attire.  Father  Donovan  was 
already  there,  and  he  helped  to  calm  the  troubled 
soul  of  Judy  Shannon  by  adding  spiritual  minis- 
trations to  the  combined  skill  of  two  very  good 
physicians. 

There  is  but  one  thing  further  to  record.  Being 
230 


MUD  AND  NINETY-FIVE 


wise  to  the  way  of  jockeys,  Chief  Special  Officer 
Wolters  looked  in  the  muddy  right  boot  of  the 
invahd,  and  discovered  a  green  and  white  sHp  of 
cardboard,  which  proved  to  be  the  only  ticket 
purchased  on  Lovin'  Reilly,  and  therefore  it  drew 
down  the  entire  pool  of  four  thousand  and  five 
dollars  and  twenty-two  cents.  The  $5.22  eventu- 
ally went  to  Willie  Cunningham,  which  was  no 
more  than  fair.  But,  as  to  the  balance,  you  must 
inquire  at  the  boarding  house  in  San  Ysidro,  now 
operated  very  successfully  by  the  firm  of  "Mother 
Shannon  &  Son." 


VIII.     THOROUGHBREDS 

IN  the  lexicon  of  the  race  track,  "speed"  and 
"class"  are  the  fundamental  concepts.  Speed 
expresses  the  oldest  instinct  of  the  human 
race,  the  insatiable  longing  to  conquer  distance; 
class  goes  back  still  further,  standing  for  that 
precious  quality  which  enabled  the  first  pollywog 
to  wiggle  out  of  the  Mesozoic  slime.  Through- 
out the  ages,  the  formula  has  remained  un- 
changed; speed  plus  class  marks  the  thorough- 
bred. 

Measured  by  either  standard,  swiftness  of  foot 
or  grace  of  breeding,  excellence  found  its  supreme 
expression  in  Viva  Reina,  silken-coated,  soft-eyed 
queen  of  the  American  turf.  No  better  loved 
mare  ever  looked  through  a  bridle  than  the  four- 
year-old  daughter  of  Old  Dominion  out  of  Em- 
press Lou.  One  glance  at  the  graceful  figure 
stepping  Into  the  sunshine  from  the  paddock 
entrance  and  leading  the  way  towards  the  barrier, 
and  every  one  understood  that  here  Indeed  was 
the  quintessence  of  lineage. 

The  eternal  fitness  of  things  ordained  that 
there  should  be  braided  in  the  mane  of  Viva 

232 


THOROUGHBREDS 


Reina  the  silver  and  purple  of  the  Van  Buren 
stables,  for  here  was  a  family  as  substantial  as 
Manhattan  itself.  Then,  too,  Billy  Van  Buren, 
the  actual  owner  of  Viva  Reina,  was  in  many 
respects  a  remarkable  young  man. 

In  his  college  days  the  younger  Van  Buren  was 
guilty  of  so  many  escapades  that  his  father,  old 
Drexel  Van  Buren,  was  forever  taking  some  dis- 
tinguished personage  aside  and  whispering  apolo- 
getically in  his  ear:  *'You  know,  Billy  is  an  unut- 
terable ass,  but — "    And  so  forth. 

The  ^'unutterable  ass"  displayed  an  extraordi- 
nary facility  for  doing  everything  well  that  was 
not  worth  doing  at  all.  He  could  mix  the  best 
cocktails,  tell  the  best  stories,  and  travel  faster 
in  a  football  suit  than  any  other  man  in  the  his- 
tory of  Nassau.  In  his  senior  year  he  broke  an 
ankle  against  a  Harvard  goal  post  and  there- 
after his  obsession  for  speed  took  the  form  of 
racing-cars  and  other  means  of  mechanical  loco- 
motion. 

When  the  war  came,  Billy  Van  Buren  chucked 
everything  and  went  to  France.  His  ankle  was 
still  a  bit  stiff,  but  it  did  not  prevent  him  from 
piloting  a  car  that  bore  the  insignia  of  the  General 
Staff  and  was  superior  to  all  traffic  regulations. 
Later  he  entered  the  air  service,  and  when  Amer- 
ica joined  the  fray,  was  transferred  to  his  own 

233 


RIDERS  UP! 


forces,  rose  to  command  of  a  combat  squadron, 
and  his  name  became  familiar  to  the  breakfast- 
tables  of  his  native  land. 

When  he  came  back,  bronzed  and  beribboned, 
it  was  to  find  his  father  a  financial  colossus  but 
still  the  same  old  doting  "Governor."  Like  two 
boys  they  talked  over  their  respective  exploits  and 
their  future  plans.  Billy  Van  Buren's  thrilling 
narrative,  intended  solely  for  his  father's  ears, 
lasted  five  hours.  Drexel  Van  Buren  told  his 
story  in  fifteen  minutes. 

"The  old  firm's  grown  a  bit,  Billy.  I  had  con- 
tracts for  ten  bottoms  at  sixty-eight  dollars  a  ton 
when  the  war  broke  out.  Cleaned  up  a  million 
and  a  half  on  each  contract  almost  overnight. 
Sold  ^ve  ships  and  put  seven  and  a  half  millions 
into  the  South  American  end  of  the  business. 
Caught  the  market  right  on  sugar — another  five 
millions.  Now  we've  got  three  millions  in  Liber- 
ties, ten  ships  worth  one  hundred  and  eighty 
dollars  a  ton,  a  warehouse  valued  at  two  million, 
and  we're  cutting  into  the  British  trade  from  one 
end  of  the  south  coast  to  the  other.  Billy,  my 
boy,  you've  been  through  hell,  now  I  want  you 
to  have  your  share  of  fun.  Forty  millions  in 
assets,  and  I  rolled  it  up  all  for  you.  Help  your- 
self, boy — hit  'em  hard  and  high,  the  old  man 
loves  you!" 

234 


THOROUGHBREDS 


So  the  younger  Van  Buren  set  out  to  realize  his 
boyhood  dreams.  He  placed  orders  for  the 
fastest  plane,  the  swiftest  motorboat,  the  speed- 
iest racing  car  that  money  and  American  ingen- 
uity could  produce.  He  imported  a  string  of 
polo  ponies,  bought  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
racing  stables  in  America,  and  established  an 
amazing  stock-farm  in  the  Berkshires.  Sport  be- 
came his  world,  and  speed  his  lodestar. 

One  after  another,  trophies  and  records  fell 
before  the  onslaught  of  Billy  Van  Buren,  and 
finally  there  appeared  Viva  Reina,  slender  and 
aristocratic,  to  carry  the  purple  and  silver  in  the 
classics  of  the  turf  and  to  assume  her  place  as  the 
queen  of  American  thoroughbreds. 

The  mare  was  purchased  from  Tod  Penning- 
ton at  a  figure  that  set  a  new  record  in  racing 
annals.  With  her,  under  a  two-year  contract, 
went  Sandy  McKee,  as  good  a  trainer  as  ever 
breathed  the  air  of  the  stables.  From  the  taci- 
turn but  sentimental  Scotchman  young  Van  Buren 
absorbed  respect  and  admiration  for  horseflesh, 
quahties  that  were  intensified  with  each  triumph 
of  Viva  Reina,  until  the  gallant  mare  represented 
to  her  owner  almost,  but  aot  quite,  the  most 
desirable  possession  in  the  world. 

The  god  of  romance  is  a  fine  stage  director. 
Van  Buren  met  Peggy  Sheridan  at  the  Madison 

235 


RIDERS  UP! 


Square  Horse  Show — under  circumstances  that 
impressed  the  event  forcibly  on  his  mind.  He  was 
rather  hopeful  of  a  clean  sweep  in  the  gaited 
saddle  class,  but  the  moment  the  spot-light  dis- 
closed the  final  challenger,  Van  Buren  drew  a 
quick  breath  and  acknowledged  himself  beaten. 

None  but  Peggy  Sheridan  could  have  achieved 
that  effect  and  not  made  it  patently  theatrical. 
On  the  back  of  her  own  entry,  the  milk-hued  King 
of  Araby,  the  heiress  to  the  Sheridan  millions 
rode  into  the  ring,  her  short  dark  curls  bobbing 
over  a  white  shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  and  boyish 
white  breeches  carrying  out  the  symphony. 

Van  Buren  did  not  wait  for  any  verdict  from 
the  judges'  stand.  He  rushed  to  one  of  the  floral 
booths  in  the  lobby,  bought  all  the  roses  in  sight, 
and  trailed  by  a  dozen  pages,  made  his  way  back 
to  the  ring. 

It  was  one  of  the  pretty  features  of  the  night, 
and  he  climaxed  the  presentation  by  handing  up 
to  Peggy  Sheridan  the  little  morocco  case,  in 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  carry  the  silver  wings 
that  surmounted  his  flying  colors. 

**Gage  d^honneur/^  he  explained.  "I'd  be 
awfully  happy  if  you'd  take  it.  I  love  thorough- 
breds, you  know;  and  Jove — I've  never  seen  a 
more  wonderful  pair!" 

It  was  a  graceful  thing  to  do,  and  Peggy  Sheri- 
236 


THOROUGHBREDS 


dan  met  It  gracefully.  She  slipped  to  the  ground, 
dark  eyes  dancing,  and  extended  her  hand  Impul- 
sively. 

"There  may  be  a  question  about  the  horse,  Mr. 
Van  Buren,  but  when  It  comes  to  sportsmanship, 
no  one  will  ever  take  your  honors  away."  She 
brushed  back  her  curls  In  a  military  salute. 

And  then  the  flashlight  photographers  let  go, 
and  fortunate  newspapermen  who  had  caught  the 
general  drift  of  the  conversation  made  hurried 
notes  to  be  "fluffed  up"  later  as  first-page  ma- 
terial. 

Those  flashlight  pictures,  captioned  In  breezy 
fashion,  and  syndicated  all  over  the  country  by 
enterprising  news-services,  caused  a  perceptible 
buzzing  around  the  tea-tables  of  society. 

The  daughter  of  Senator  Sheridan  was  worth 
several  millions  In  her  own  name.  People  re- 
called her  game-hunting  exploits  In  Africa,  her 
passion  for  fanciful  costumes  and  extraordinary 
pets,  her  athletic  prowess,  her  celebrated  mlllion- 
a-minute  Red  Cross  speech  In  Wall  Street,  and 
her  apparent  ambition  to  make  every  one  else 
dizzy,  so  what  more  natural  than  that  she  should 
marry  Billly  Van  Buren,  the  American  speed- 
prince? 

"And  then,  they're  both  of  such  splendid  fami- 
237 


RIDERS  UP! 


lies,"  argued  Society,  "and  so  temperamentally 
alike — rather  high-steppers." 

More  and  more  they  were  seen  in  each  other's 
company.  While  their  interests  paralleled,  a  sort 
of  entente  cordiale  developed  which  eliminated 
competition.  If  Peggy  Sheridan  entered  her  bull 
terriers  in  the  Knickerbocker  Kennel  Show,  Van 
Buren  kept  his  at  home  and  sought  top  honors 
in  the  Airedale  class.  Between  them,  they  made 
pretty  much  of  a  clean-up  in  the  National  Cours- 
ing Stakes  and  the  North  American  Field  Trials. 
Flying  in  the  New  York-Baltimore  Sweepstakes, 
Van  Buren  registered  the  lowest  elapsed  time; 
and  Peggy  Sheridan's  yacht  defended  its  honors 
successfully  in  the  Newport  Regatta. 

All  these  activities  were  viewed  complacently 
by  the  elect,  but  when  interest  was  at  its  height, 
the  pendulum  which  operates  by  the  law  of  aver- 
ages reached  the  turning  point  in  the  arc  of  abnor- 
mal prosperity  and  began  the  downward  swing 
along  the  path  of  inevitable  reckoning.  Far- 
sighted  business  men  sought  financial  storm- 
cellars;  small  bubbles  burst,  and  then  larger  ones; 
foreign  trade  became  demoralized.  Wall  Street 
uneasy;  and  the  current  of  readjustment  became  a 
millrace. 

Old  Drexel  Van  Buren  struggled  manfully  to 
keep  his  head  above  the  flood,  but  many  a  younger 

238 


THOROUGHBREDS 


and  stronger  man  than  he  found  himself  facing  a 
receivership. 

There  was  nothing  mystifying  about  the  threat- 
ened collapse  of  the  Van  Buren  interests.  Ex- 
panding its  operations,  the  firm  had  bought  heav- 
ily on  the  market  sugar  and  coffee  on  consign- 
ment, and  had  sold  on  bill-of-lading  two  shiploads 
of  rice.  To  accomplish  this,  the  elder  Van  Buren 
had  hypothecated  the  firm's  bonds  and  borrowed 
seven  and  a  half  million  from  New  York  banks. 

With  the  break  of  the  market,  Van  Buren  and 
Company  stood  to  lose  six  million  in  sugar  and 
coffee  and  another  three  million  when  their  rice 
was  declined  by  the  consignee.  The  value  of 
bottoms  dropped  almost  as  speedily  as  it  had 
risen;  and  one  after  another,  holders  of  the  firm's 
securities  became  alarmed,  and  creditor  banks, 
under  instructions  from  the  Federal  Reserve 
authorities,  began  calling  their  loans.  Mean- 
while, Billy  Van  Buren  pursued  his  way  blissfully 
along  the  pathway  of  the  speed-burners.   .   .   . 

Duncan  Cartwright,  family  counselor,  located 
Billy  one  morning  at  the  latter's  club.  In  his  hand 
the  lawyer  carried  a  morning  paper  which  pub- 
lished on  the  financial  page  a  thinly  veiled  refer- 
ence to  the  financial  embarrassment  of  one  of  the 
city's  oldest  and  most  reliable  firms.     Van  Buren 

239 


RIDERS  UP! 


was  at  breakfast,  and  he  waved  Cartwright  to  a 
chair  beside  him. 

The  attorney  accepted  the  Invitation  and  then 
opened  the  paper  to  the  market  news.  "Read 
that,"  he  said  soberly.  "I  want  you  to  attend  a 
conference  In  my  office  this  afternoon.  We're  on 
the  rocks,  you  know,  and  there  may  be  something 
you  can  do,  though  I  don't  Imagine  what." 

Van  Buren  grinned  cheerfully.  "You're  frank, 
aren't  you?  Of  course  there  Isn't  anything  I  can 
do,  and  you've  picked  out  a  rotten  day  for  a  con- 
ference; I  can't  possibly  attend.  Read  that." 
He  tossed  over  a  night  telegram,  and  Cartwright 
adjusted  his  glasses  gravely.  This  Is  what  he 
read : 

^'Pancake  burning.  Coffee  clear.  Rambled 
thirty-nine.     Table  set  for  you. — Head  Waiter.** 

At  the  attorney's  grunt  of  protest.  Van  Buren 
looked  up  quickly  and  then  laughed  In  sudden 
comprehension  of  the  joke. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
forgot  that  It  was  In  code.  The  message  Is  from 
Sandy  McKee,  my  trainer  at  Saratoga,  and  It  re- 
fers to  Viva  Relna.  Here,  I'll  decipher  It: 
Weather  clear,  track  fast,  Viva  Reina  breezed  a 
mile  in  one  minute  and  thirty-nine  seconds  and  is 
ready  to  win  for  you.  Signed:  McKee.*  That 
means,"  he  explained,  "that  Sandy  McKee  figures 

240 


THOROUGHBREDS 


the  mare  will  capture  the  Saratoga  Stakes  to-day 
and  thus  prove  herself  ready  for  the  International 
Derby  at  Belmont.  Of  course,  I'm  going  to  watch 
her  run;  so  you  see  I  can't  very  well  attend  your 
conference." 

Cartwrlght  consulted  his  watch.  "You  don't 
mean  that  you  figure  on  being  in  Saratoga  this 
afternoon?"  he  questioned. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  Van  Buren  answered.  "Come 
along  with  me.  I'm  going  to  hop  off  in  about  an 
hour.  I  can  cut  train  time  in  half,  you  know, 
and  I'll  get  you  back  in  New  York  in  plenty  of 
time  for  dinner;  how's  that  hit  you?" 

The  lawyer's,  "No,  thank  you,"  was  uttered 
with  emphasis. 

"How  about  to-morrow?"  he  inquired. 

"Worse,"  said  Van  Buren.  "I'm  booked  to 
start  from  scratch  in  the  Long  Island  Motorboat 
Handicap,  and  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  the  world." 

"Humph!  Well,  let's  make  it  the  following 
day." 

The  younger  man  shook  his  head.  "You're 
forgetting  the  International  Polo  Match,  and 
after  that  there  are  the  auto  races  in  Florida " 

Cartwright  controlled  himself  with  a  very 
great  effort. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  he  protested,  **my  very 
dear  young  man !    Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not 

241 


RIDERS  UP! 


comprehend  that  your  father  is  facing  bankruptcy, 
that  this  country  is  confronting  the  greatest  in- 
dustrial crisis  in  fifty  years,  that " 

Billy  Van  Buren  suddenly  interrupted,  tossing 
aside  his  napkin  and  leaning  confidentially  across 
the  table. 

**Cartwright,"  he  said,  ''let's  come  to  an  un- 
derstanding." 

"Precisely,"  agreed  the  lawyer.  "That's  what 
I'm  here  for." 

"Well,  then,"  Van  Buren  pursued,  "here  it  is: 
I  have  at  the  present  time  all  the  money  I  want, 
and  it's  invested  in  the  things  that  I  like.  No 
man  can  touch  my  personal  fortune,  and  I  figure 
that  it  is  suflicient  to  care  for  Dad  and  myself  in 
a  perfectly  befitting  manner.  Now,  if  the  firm 
goes  to  the  bow-wows,  as  you  seem  to  think  it 
will  do,  I'll  be  damn'  well  pleased,  for  it's  the 
only  way  I'll  ever  get  the  Governor  to  step  out 
of  the  harness  and  live  like  a  gentleman.  He 
will  never  quit  unless  he  is  made  to,  and  I  cer- 
tainly have  no  intention  of  trying  to  perpetuate  a 
business  that  would  compel  me  to  give  up  the 
things  in  life  that  I  consider  worth  while.  Now, 
you'll  excuse  me,  won't  you,  if  I  hurry  off  to  the 
field?" 

Very  red  in  the  face.  Attorney  Duncan  Cart- 
wright  arose  and  bowed  to  the  younger  man  in 

242 


THOROUGHBREDS 


a  manner  dignified  and  courtly,  as  became  an  ex- 
Senator  of  the  United  States. 

"I  wish  you  bon  voyage  and  success  in  your 
chosen  field  of  effort,"  he  said.  "Pray  do  not  let 
me  detain  you." 

An  hour  later  the  special  Curtiss-Blauvelt,  a 
mile  high  in  the  sunlight,  was  following  the  trail 
of  the  river.  Nor  was  Billy  Van  Buren  alone. 
His  eleventh-hour  inspiration  had  its  reward.  In 
front  of  the  pilot's  seat  was  the  hooded  and  jack- 
eted figure  of  Peggy  Sheridan. 

They  made  a  perfect  landing  in  the  center  of 
the  track  itself,  and  later  watched  Viva  Reina 
romp  home  in  the  rich  Saratoga  Stakes,  leading  a 
gallant  field  by  two  lengths.  Van  Buren  had 
wagered  one  hundred  thousand  on  the  mare's 
chances,  at  one  to  four,  but  he  was  jubilant  for 
other  reasons.  ... 

The  International  Derby  was  a  new  event, 
establishing  the  supreme  classic  in  the  racing 
annals  of  the  world.  It  provided  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  and  a  gold  trophy  to  the  winner 
and  was  open  only  to  four-year-olds  which,  in 
the  preceding  season,  had  captured  the  three  most 
Tmportant  events  in  their  respective  countries. 
Viva  Reina's  Impressive  victory  that  day  showed 
that  she  was  ready  to  uphold  American  honors 

243 


RIDERS  UP! 


in  the  epochal  thoroughbred  test  now  but  a  few 
days  distant. 

Van  Buren  and  his  guest  took  the  air  again  as 
soon  as  the  fifth  race  was  over  and  began  the 
homeward  flight.  It  was  a  perfect  day  for  flying, 
redolent  with  the  charm  of  late  autumn,  and  Van 
Buren's  reflections  were  in  harmony  with  his  sur- 
roundings. He  was  young:  he  was  independently 
wealthy;  he  had  just  seen  the  purple  and  silver 
cheered  by  twenty-five  thousand  people;  Peggy 
Sheridan  was  In  front  of  him;  and  the  earth  lay 
below  them — a  colorful  mosaic.  He  shut  off  the 
motor,  and  they  drifted  through  soundless  space 
with  nothing  to  Indicate  that  they  were  moving 
at  all. 

He  leaned  forward.     "Great,  Isn't  it?" 

The  girl  looked  back  and  nodded  dreamily. 

Yielding  to  Impulse  as  usual.  Van  Buren  spoke 
again: 

"Let's  team  it  together,  Peggy,  always.  I'm 
crazy  about  you  and  lonely  as  the  devil.     I " 

"Billy  Van  Buren!"  exclaimed  Miss  Sheridan. 
"Are  you  proposing?" 

"I'm  trying  to,"  he  acknowledged  cheerfully. 
"It's  my  maiden  effort,  so  you'll  have  to  make 
allowances." 

The  answer  was  a  laugh  of  silver.  The  daugh- 
ter of  Senator  Sheridan  contemplated  her  com- 

244 


THOROUGHBREDS 


panion  a  moment  and  then  directed  a  calm  glance 
at  the  earth  beneath  them. 

"I  suppose  if  I  say  no,  you'll  go  into  a  tail- 
spin,"  she  observed.  "Do  start  the  engine  up, 
Billy,  and  give  me  a  chance  to  think  it  over." 

Immediately  the  roar  of  the  motor  precluded 
further  conversation  as  the  gray  'plane  sped 
toward  Manhattan.  The  speed  at  which  they 
made  the  return  trip  indicated  Van  Buren's  eager- 
ness to  learn  his  fate.  Just  as  the  long  day  was 
fading,  they  circled  over  the  landing-field  and 
then  swooped  gracefully  down,  coming  to  rest  as 
a  number  of  overalled  figures  hastened  to  meet 
them. 

Van  Buren  led  the  way  to  his  racing  car,  tucked 
his  companion  in,  then  took  his  seat  at  the  wheel. 

When  they  were  well  on  their  way  downtown, 
Peggy  Sheridan  of  her  own  accord  broke  the 
silence. 

"You're  a  dear  boy,  Billy,  and  I'm  not  at  all 
sure  that  I  don't  love  you;  but  there  are  three 
perfectly  good  reasons  why  I  won't  marry  you." 

Van  Buren  kept  his  eyes  on  the  stream  of  traffic 
ahead.  "Do  you  mind  listing  the  reasons?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  responded.  "First,  every- 
body would  say  that  you  have  added  another 
souvenir  to  your  collection,  and  that's  just  about 

245 


RIDERS  UP! 


it;  I'd  be  of  no  more  use  to  you  than  any  other 
trophy  of  the  chase.  Second,  you  hold  one-half 
the  prize-winners  in  the  country,  and  I  control 
the  balance.  If  we  married,  it  would  be  a  com- 
bination in  restraint  of  trade,  and  we'd  be  right- 
fully prosecuted.  Third," — she  checked  the 
figure  off  on  a  slim  white  finger — "and  this  is  the 
serious  one,  Billy,  the  man  I  marry  must  show 
something  else  besides  speed." 

"Something  besides  speed?" 

"Yes,"  she  affirmed,  "speed  plus  a  certain  qual- 
ity that  not  even  Kipling  could  define.  You  know 
how  he  puts  it: 

//  you  can  force  your  heart  and  nerve  and  sinew 
To  serve  your  turn  long  after  they  are  gone. 
And  so  hold  on  when  there  is  nothing  in  you 
Except  the  Will  which  says  to  them  ''Hold  on!" 

"That's  the  quality  I  mean,  Billy.  Speed  is 
just  a  matter  of  mere  mechanics  or  muscles,  unless 
it  is  backed  by  the  other." 

"And  I  haven't  got  it — the  other?"  Van  Buren 
put  the  question  quietly. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  responded.  "I  suppose 
you  have,  or  you  would  never  have  done  those 
wonderful  things  In  France.  But  the  war  is  over 
now,  and  you  are  the  American  Speed  King,  with 
no  other  occupation  than  collecting  cups  and  rib- 

246 


THOROUGHBREDS 


bons.  Of  course,  I'm  doing  much  the  same  thing; 
in  fact,  we're  so  nearly  alike  that  it's  silly;  but 
what's  forgiven  in  a  woman  is  sometimes  regarded 
differently  in  a  man.  Am  I  making  myself  clear, 
Billy?" 

Van  Buren  grinned  ruefully.  "You're  doing 
splendid,  my  dear,"  he  commented.  "You're 
willing  to  admit  that  I'm  a  speed-burner,  but  you 
question  my  ability  to  carry  weight  and  go  a  dis- 
tance on  a  heavy  track." 

"No,"  she  contradicted,  "it  isn't  that  at  all.  I 
think  you  have  the  ability,  but  the  circumstances 
are  such  that  it  is  not  required  of  you,  and  hence, 
speed  is  sufficient  for  your  purposes.  Outside  of 
a  good  husband,  speed  meets  all  my  requirements 
too;  so  let's  forget  it,  Billy,  and  continue  to  be 
just  good  friends." 

Van  Buren  was  a  game  loser.  As  they  turned 
into  Riverside  Drive,  he  stopped  the  car  a  mo- 
ment at  a  corner  florist's,  excused  himself  and 
returned  a  moment  later  with  an  enormous  bou- 
quet of  her  favorite  Irish  Fireflame  roses. 

"Don't  count  me  out  of  the  running  yet,"  he 
pleaded.  "It's  rather  hard  to  have  my  horses  and 
dogs  win  every  event,  and  to  come  a  cropper  in 
my  own  start.  You'll  suspend  judgment,  won't 
you,  while  I  try  to  find  out  what's  wrong 
with  me?" 

247 


RIDERS  UP! 


Peggy  Sheridan  burled  her  face  in  the  flowers, 
and  they  alone  heard  her  reply.  Van  Buren  was 
watching  the  traffic-signal,  or  he  might  have  de- 
tected the  effect  produced  by  his  last  speech  and 
have  pressed  his  advantage.  But  the  golden 
moment  slipped  by,  and,  when  he  again  stole  a 
glance  at  his  companion,  she  was  gazing  dreamily 
into  space. 

When  they  parted  company  at  the  Sheridan 
mansion,  Van  Buren  went  home,  and  later  that 
night  in  the  library  of  his  own  residence  encoun- 
tered a  second  problem.  He  found  his  father 
seated  before  a  log  fire,  his  gaunt  form  clad  in 
evening  clothes,  outlined  against  the  crimson 
plush  of  the  luxurious  armchair.  The  elder  Van 
Buren  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  whose  body 
had  been  broken  on  the  rack  and  then  flung  aside 
as  wreckage.  His  son's  eyes  widened  in  quick 
concern. 

*'Why,  Governor!"  he  exclaimed.  *'Why, 
Governor — what's  happened?" 

Drexel  Van  Buren  continued  his  silent  contem- 
plation of  the  dancing  flames.  The  younger  man's 
thoughts  raced  back  to  his  conversation  that 
morning  with  Lawyer  Cartwright,  and  he  thought 
he  understood. 

He  put  an  affectionate  arm  around  his  father's 
shoulders.     "Don't  take  it  too  hard,  Dad,"  he 

248 


THOROUGHBREDS 


urged.  "You've  done  your  bit  and  earned  a  rest. 
I've  got  enough  to  take  care  of  us  both.  Let  the 
business  go  hang,  and  you  and  I  will  have  a  good 
time  together." 

Van  Buren  Senior  patted  his  son's  hand  and 
smiled  wistfully.  "You're  going  to  take  care  of 
me,  eh,  Billy?  You're  a  fine  boy — a  splendid 
chap;  but  I'm  afraid  you  don't  quite  understand 
about  things." 

"No?" 

"No."  Then  after  a  moment  Drexel  Van 
Buren  spoke  again: 

"Of  course,  we  can't  all  be  heroes.  You  had  a 
golden  chance,  and  you  made  the  most  of  it.  I'm 
mighty  proud  of  you.  With  me,  it's  been  heavy 
going  all  my  life,  plodding  along  through  the  mud 
to  make  a  success  of  the  business  my  father  and 
my  father's  father  created  and  carried  on.  It's 
a  good  deal  like  a  race,  you  know.  The  test 
comes  In  the  stretch,  as  you've  often  pointed  out, 
and  I  would  like  to  have  finished  a  winner.  Once 
I  could  have  stood  the  gaff,  could  have  met  the 
challenge;  but  I'm  no  longer  young,  Billy;  they're 
too  strong  for  me.  But  it  goes  against  the  grain 
to  quit  when  the  wire  is  in  sight;  that's  what 
hurts/' 

"Just  how  bad  is  it,  Governor?"  Van  Buren 
Junior  Inquired  quietly. 

249 


RIDERS  UP! 


"We  need  about  seven  million  in  cash  to  see 
us  through.  Dalrymple  went  over  to  the  Pan- 
Atlantic  people  Tuesday,  and  that  precipitated 
matters.  As  general  manager  the  banks  believed 
he  would  have  been  able  to  pull  us  out  of  the  hole. 
They  think  Pm  too  old  to  weather  the  storm,  and 
I  guess  theyVe  right." 

Billy  Van  Buren  paced  up  and  down  the  long 
room. 

The  elder  man  roused  himself  and  strove  to 
square  his  shoulders.  "I  don't  want  you  to  make 
any  sacrifice,  Billy — you're  young,  and  you're 
blooded;  you're  a  good,  clean  sportsman,  and 
that's  a  royal  profession.  They've  given  me  ten 
days  in  which  to  fight  off  a  receivership.  Perhaps 
something  will  turn  up  in  the  meantime ;  if  not — 
I'll  become  the  father  of  America's  Speed  King; 
that  ought  to  be  honor  enough  for  an  old  man,  eh, 
Billy?    Let's  go  to  bed,  son.  .  .  ." 

The  only  thing  that  developed  in  the  tangled 
affairs  of  the  Van  Buren  family  during  the  next 
few  days  was  the  International  Derby,  set  for 
Belmont  Park  on  the  day  before  Drexel  Van 
Buren  was  required  to  face  his  creditors  in  the 
final  showdown. 

The  approach  of  this  extraordinary  event 
threw  into  partial  eclipse  the  nation's  political 
and  industrial  problems,  enabled  sporting  writers 

250 


THOROUGHBREDS 


to  break  into  the  front  pages  of  even  the  most 
conservative  dailies,  and  developed  such  a  storm 
of  controversy  and  conjecture  that  Billy  Van 
Buren  had  time  to  think  of  nothing  else. 

Admitting  that  Viva  Reina  was  undoubtedly 
the  queen  of  the  American  turf,  ninety  out  of 
every  one  hundred  horsemen  bewailed  the  fact 
that  a  mare  should  be  compelled  to  defend  the 
national  colors  against  five  supreme  contestants 
of  the  opposite  sex. 

As  every  turf-expert  knows,  endurance  and 
stamina  in  the  last  analysis  are  the  prerogatives 
of  the  male.  The  daughter  of  Old  Dominion  had 
already  shattered  one  tradition,  which  held  that 
a  mare  could  never  win  a  Derby;  but  when  it 
came  to  asking  her  to  defeat  the  combined  attack 
of  Brighthurst,  the  English  superhorse;  St.  Egwin, 
the  Canadian  crack;  the  French  stallion  Beau 
Monde;  Don  Pedro,  out  of  the  royal  stables  at 
Madrid;  and  the  Argentine  entry  Rio  Norte — 
even  the  most  sanguine  followers  of  the  silver 
and  purple  appreciated  that  the  test  was  unpar- 
alleled in  race-track  history.  Following  their 
three-year-old  season,  every  entrant  had  been 
shipped  to  America  to  become  acclimated,  and 
though  they  had  never  been  called  upon  to  face 
one  another,  each  had  won  sufficiently  important 
events  to  indicate  that  in  speed  and  performance 

251 


RIDERS  UP! 


they  were  well  matched.  Meeting  now  as  four- 
year-olds,  and  for  the  first  time,  they  were  fully 
entitled  to  the  extraordinary  attention  they  re- 
ceived. 

Billy  Van  Buren  sought  comfort  from  Sandy 
McKee. 

"Oh,  aye,"  said  the  grizzled  Scot,  "  'twill  be  a 
terrible  struggle,  but  the  Queen  will  do  what  we 
ask  of  her.  The  only  question  Is,  should  we 
ask  It?" 

"We  have  to,"  answered  Van  Buren.  "She's 
the  only  one  qualified  to  start  in  the  American 
colors." 

"Well,  then,"  said  McKee  simply,  "she'll  win." 
And  It  was  with  this  understanding  that  when  the 
great  day  came.  Viva  Reina — one  hundred  and 
twenty-one  pounds  on  her  back,  her  mane  plaited 
with  silver  and  purple,  and  trembling  In  every 
bronze-gold  limb — was  sent  to  the  barrier  for 
the  utmost  test  of  the  thoroughbred. 

The  most  brilliant  writers  of  the  world  vied 
with  one  another  In  describing  that  scene — Bel- 
mont bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunlight,  half  a  mil- 
lion people  gathered  from  the  earth's  four  cor- 
ners, the  flags  of  six  nations  flung  to  the  breeze. 

Amid  all  that  vast  concourse  the  figure  of 
Billy  Van  Buren  was  an  object  of  general  atten- 
tion.   Hundreds  trailed  him,  eager  for  a  word  of 

252 


THOROUGHBREDS 


assurance  as  to  the  chances  of  Viva  Reina.  To 
all  Inquiries  he  made  the  same  reply:  "The  mare 
is  ready  and  she'll  do  her  best." 

Sentiment  rather  than  cold  judgment  made  the 
Queen  a  favorite  in  the  betting  at  the  start.  As 
the  hour  for  the  race  approached,  British  sports- 
men undertook  a  financial  offensive  in  behalf  of 
Brighthurst,  the  unbeaten  black  stallion;  and  the 
French  and  Canadian  contingents  unloosed  a 
flood  of  coin  In  support  of  their  respective  entries. 
No  one  ever  knew  how  much  Van  Buren  actually 
wagered,  but  the  rumor  spread  that  his  agents 
were  operating  under  "no  limit"  instructions. 

On  his  way  to  the  paddock.  Viva  Relna's  owner 
recognized  Peggy  Sheridan  surrounded  by  a  laugh- 
ing group  on  the  clubhouse  gallery,  and  he  bowed 
in  acknowledgment  of  her  greeting. 

He  found  Viva  Reina  already  in  her  stall, 
Sandy  McKee  hovering  around  her  with  all  the 
tender  solicitude  of  a  mother  applying  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  her  daughter's  bridal  attire.  Never 
had  Viva  Reina  appeared  more  beautiful;  never 
had  the  exquisite  head  been  poised  more  regally, 
nor  the  luminous  eyes  expressed  such  passionate 
desire.  Through  the  medium  of  that  mysterious 
telepathy  to  which  a  race-horse  Is  so  sensitive,  the 
daughter  of  Old  Dominion  and  Empress  Lou 
understood  that  her  great  hour  had  come,  and 

253 


RIDERS  UP! 


with  expanding  nostrils  she  welcomed  the  chal- 
lenge. 

It  was  a  small  thing  that  accentuated  Sandy 
McKee's  vague  uneasiness.  Some  one  had  hung 
a  silver  and  purple  wreath  over  the  stall,  and  a 
moment  after  the  saddling  bell  rang,  the  wreath, 
loosened  by  the  mare's  Impatient  stamping,  fell 
to  the  tanbark  floor. 

The  trainer  had  never  appeared  superstitious 
before,  and  Van  Buren  was  surprised  to  see  him 
pay  any  attention  to  the  incident.  He  strove  to 
laugh  away  McKee's  concern,  but  the  old  Scotch- 
man shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"It  isn't  altogether  that,  Mr.  Van  Buren.  It's 
just  an  uncomfortable  feeling  I've  got.  Trainers 
get  hunches,  you  know.  I'd  give  anything  in  the 
world  If  the  Queen  didn't  have  to  start." 

The  call  to  post  sounded.  There  was  a  rush  in 
the  direction  of  the  grandstand.  McKee  swept  a 
final  caressing  hand  over  the  smooth  coat  of  Viva 
Reina — a  caress  that  was  almost  like  a  farewell. 
He  drew  a  rough  hand  hastily  across  his  eyes,  and 
handed  the  reins  to  Billy  Van  Buren. 

*'Lead  her  out,  sir,"  he  invited.  "There's  your 
winner,  the  greatest  thoroughbred  in  the  history 
of  the  world!'* 

Van  Buren  thrust  out  a  quick  hand,  and  McKee 
took  it. 

254 


THOROUGHBREDS 


"^Sandy,"  declared  the  younger  man,  "I'm 
learning  more  about  thoroughbreds  every  day." 
And  with  that  enigmatic  statement,  Billy  Van 
Buren  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession 
and  led  the  way  toward  the  track.  At  the  gate 
he  surrendered  the  mare  to  the  diminutive  Tad 
Miller,  her  accustomed  rider,  and  made  his  way 
hurriedly  to  the  gallery  reserved  for  owners  oppo- 
site the  judges'  stand. 

When  they  paraded  past  on  their  way  to  the 
barrier  which  marked  the  starting  point  of  the 
mile-and-a-quarter  struggle,  every  jockey  was  clad 
in  the  national  colors  of  his  country,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  modern  turf  annals,  the  stable  colors 
were  restricted  to  the  plaited  manes  of  the  con- 
tenders. Viewing  the  mighty  Brighthurst,  canter- 
ing second  In  the  line,  and  followed  by  the  regal 
Don  Pedro  and  the  powerful  Beau  Monde,  each 
carrying  but  five  pounds  more  than  the  mare,  the 
latter's  owner  appreciated  keenly  the  heroic  task 
that  confronted  the  American  Queen. 

A  moment  later  McKee  squirmed  his  way  up 
the  staircase,  accompanied  by  an  expert  clocker 
commissioned  to  call  off  the  time  by  quarters. 

It  seemed  that  the  field  was  at  post  for  an  hour, 
but  in  reality  It  was  only  a  matter  of  four  min- 
utes. While  thousands  of  glasses  v/ere  leveled  at 
the  plunging,  twisting  barricade  of  color,  suddenly 

^5S 


RIDERS  UP! 


It  crumbled  and  spread,  a  volcanic  roar  ascended 
to  the  skies,  and  the  race  of  the  century  was  on. 

The  Argentine  and  Canadian  colors  broke  first, 
Rio  Norte  and  St.  Egwin  off  flying  and  setting  a 
terrific  pace,  Beau  Monde,  carrying  the  tricolor 
and  lapping  the  leaders,  and  Brighthurst  and  Viva 
Reina  running  nose  and  nose  at  the  flank  of  the 
French  entry. 

They  made  the  first  quarter  in  twenty-three 
seconds,  and  then  Rio  Norte  faltered  perceptibly. 
St.  Egwin's  head  showed  in  front,  with  Beau 
Monde  moving  up. 

At  the  second  quarter,  reeled  off  in  twenty-three 
and  one-fifth,  the  Canadian  horse  cracked  under 
the  terrific  pace  and  fell  back,  the  French  stallion 
taking  command,  half  a  length  In  front  of  Viva 
Reina,  the  latter  still  a  nose  in  front  of  Bright- 
burst. 

At  the  five-eighths  pole  the  field  shifted  again. 
This  time  it  was  the  Tricolor  that  surrendered, 
and  to  the  American  mare.  The  great  band, 
marshaled  at  the  staircase,  caught  the  signal  and 
struck  up  "Dixie,"  but  the  strains  were  drowned 
in  the  roar  of  the  multitude. 

Billy  Van  Buren,  watching  through  his  glasses, 
estimated  the  positions: 

"Reina  a  nose,  Brighthurst  second  by  a  length, 
France  third  by  three  lengths.'* 

256 


THOROUGHBREDS 


The  two  leaders,  running  as  though  they  were 
harnessed,  made  the  far  turn  and  flashed  past 
the  mile  post.  The  roaring  swelled  like  an  organ 
note.  The  race  lay  between  England  and  Amer- 
ica. 

*'MIle  in  thirty-five,"  called  the  docker. 

A  smothered  exclamation  burst  from  Sandy 
McKee:  "Pray  for  a  slow  eighth,"  he  begged,  "a 
slow  eighth,  or  the  Queen  Is  gone!" 

But  that  slow  eighth  never  came.  Lord  Cum- 
berland's jockey  knew  his  business.  He  was 
astride  a  superhorse,  and  he  acted  accordingly. 
With  horror-stricken  eyes  Billy  Van  Buren  and 
old  Sandy  McKee  saw  the  British  colors  dip 
deeper  In  the  saddle,  saw  the  jockey's  cap  go 
down  to  the  powerful  black  neck,  and  realized 
that  even  with  that  heart-breaking  mile  back  of 
them,  the  boy  on  Brighthurst  was  now  making  his 
move. 

It  was  a  royal  challenge  hurled  by  an  equine 
king  at  a  thoroughbred  queen,  and  right  rpyally 
it  was  met.  In  the  deep  bosom  of  Viva  Reina  was 
a  magic  quality  which  made  surrender  Impossible. 
Into  the  stretch  they  swung,  Brighthurst  on  the 
right,  the  American  colors  on  the  rail. 

The  docker's  voice  cut  through  the  maelstrom: 
"Eighth  In  eleven  seconds  flat!" 

McKee  cried  out  in  anguish:  *'It's  murder! 
257 


RIDERS  UP! 


Pull  her  in,  Tad — let  him  have  it.  Ease  her  up, 
boy!" 

The  feeble  shout  was  lost  in  the  storm.  It 
would  have  made  no  difference  had  it  been  heard. 
With  delicate  ears  flattened  to  her  head  and  velvet 
eyes  rolled  back  defiantly  at  her  foe,  Viva  Reina 
held  to  the  slender  lead,  and  no  mortal  arms 
could  have  restrained  her. 

In  that  last  staggering  eighth  of  a  mile  from 
paddock  to  wire,  with  the  multitude  gone  mad, 
Sandy  McKee  clutched  at  Billy  Van  Buren  and 
screamed  into  the  latter's  ear: 

*'They  haven't  a  thing  left;  they're  finishing  on 
class  alone.    Look  at 'em!" 

The  straining  eyes  of  the  American  Speed  King 
beheld  than  a  sight  he  was  never  to  forget:  Lord 
Cumberland's  jockey  plying  whip  and  arm  and 
heel  and  spur,  tiny  Tad  Miller  doubled  frantic- 
ally on  the  mare's  heaving  shoulders,  and  two 
gallant  animals,  far  past  the  limit  of  their  speed 
and  endurance,  rolling  and  bumping  desperately 
onward  after  the  manner  of  those  who: 

Hold  on  when  there  is  nothing  in  them 
Except  the  Will  which  says  to  them: 
''Hold  our 

And  in  this  manner,  long  after  heart  and  nerve 
and  sinew  had  served  their  turn,  under  the  wire 

258 


THOROUGHBREDS 


first,  by  the  grace  of  two  blood-red  nostrils, 
flashed  Viva  Reina ! 

Up  shot  the  blast  of  a  half-million  throats; 
down  dropped  the  white  figures,  1 159  3-5,  spell- 
ing a  new  world's  record;  the  musicians  launched 
into  the  National  Anthem;  the  joyous  multitude 
rubbed  shoulders  in  a  common  rush  towards  the 
charmed  winner's  circle,  eager  to  acclaim  Amer- 
ica's matchless  Queen. 

It  was  a  small  thing  that  brought  the  first  hush 
to  those  who  were  quick  of  eye,  the  sight  of  a 
hatless,  gray-haired  trainer  running  shakily  up 
the  center  of  the  track  toward  the  turn  where  the 
field  was  slowing  up — then  grooms  and  hostlers, 
vaulting  the  rail,  hurried  in  the  same  direction. 
After  them  appeared  the  figure  of  Billy  Van 
Buren,  moving  at  top-speed  away  from  the  stands 
toward  a  blotch  of  color  on  the  ground  partly 
hidden  by  the  curve  of  the  fence. 

The  hush  spread  into  a  vast  blanket  of  silence 
that  descended  upon  beautiful  Belmont  like  a 
shroud.  Men  turned  to  each  other  and  whis- 
pered, ''What's  happened — ^what's  wrong?"  and 
they  got  no  answer.  One  after  another  Bright- 
hurst,  Beau  Monde,  Don  Pedro,  St.  Egwin  and 
Rio  Norte  came  cantering  back,  but  the  flower- 
laden  winner's  circle  remained  without  an  occu- 
pant.    Mercifully  screened  from  the  gaping  thou- 

259 


RIDERS  UP! 


sands,  Viva  Relna  had  dropped  with  a  shattered 
heart. 

Five  minutes  dragged  by,  and  an  usher  made 
his  way  from  the  judges'  pagoda  to  the  bandstand. 
The  leader  whispered  his  instructions;  there  was 
a  hurried  turning  of  pages,  an  adjustment  of 
instruments,  and  then  the  musicians  arose  bare- 
headed. In  the  first  strains  of  the  death  march 
the  great  crowd  understood  that  Nature's  laws 
had  been  transcended,  and  the  Queen  of  the  Thor- 
oughbreds had  answered  with  her  life. 

When  the  last  note  had  died  away,  hundreds 
went  in  search  of  Viva  Reina's  owner  to  express 
to  him  their  sympathy,  but  Billy  Van  Buren  had 
disappeared. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  next  night,  in  the  library  of 
one  of  New  York's  most  famous  bankers,  a  pio- 
neer business  man,  approaching  the  end  of  a  long 
and  arduous  struggle,  faced  courageously  a  group 
of  the  city's  financial  wizards.  In  the  patient 
silence  with  which  they  heard  him  he  read  defeat, 
but  he  talked  valiantly  on. 

Finally  a  gray-haired  man  at  the  head  of  the 
table  interrupted:  "We  had  rather  hoped  for 
some  more  constructive  suggestions,"  he  said 
gently.  "Have  you  no  resources  other  than  those 
mentioned?" 

260 


THOROUGHBREDS 


''Only  one,"  responded  Drexel  Van  Buren,  and 
he  smiled  a  little  wistfully  as  a  man  does  who  sur- 
renders a  treasured  task  to  stronger  hands.  He 
laid  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  a  young  man  at 
his  side,  and  again  faced  the  gathering. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "my  son."  And  Billy 
Van  Buren  arose  to  his  feet. 

He  was  a  trifle  nervous  at  first,  but  presently 
he  struck  his  stride  and  was  smiling  at  them  with 
frank  boyishness. 

"Why,  It's  like  this,  you  see,"  he  explained. 
"Life  is  a  good  deal  like  a  race-course,  full  of 
sprints,  and  handicaps  and  stake  events,  and  it 
takes  us  some  little  time  to  get  our  bearings,  learn 
our  lessons,  and  discover  in  what  event  we  are 
best  fitted  to  start.  Right  now.  Father  is  entered 
in  a  race  under  rather  trying  conditions.  He's 
been  campaigning  a  long  time — a  little  too  long, 
perhaps,  to  carry  successfully  all  the  weight  that's 
assigned  to  him;  so  I'm  going  to  start  too;  It  will 
be  a  sort  of  stable  entry,  you  know." 

"You?"  questioned  the  man  at  the  head  of 
the  table. 

"Yes,"  said  Billy  Van  Buren.  "Last  night  and 
to-day  I  arranged  to  dispose  of  my  stables,  my 
'planes,  my  cars,  my  cruisers,  my  farm,  everything 
by  which  the  public  Identifies  me.  I'll  sell  these 
clothes  if  anybody  wants  them.     The  only  thing 

261 


RIDERS  UP! 


I  won't  sell  is  this" :  he  threw  aside  his  coat  and 
revealed  a  small  bow  fashioned  of  silver  and 
purple  ribbon. 

''I  took  that  from  the  mane  of  Viva  Relna," 
he  said  with  assumed  lightness,  "and  I  rather 
expect  to  wear  it — henceforth." 

The  president  of  the  banking  house  of  Dwight 
Robinson  and  Company  stirred  in  his  seat.  "May 
I  ask,"  he  said,  "just  how  much  money  you  expect 
to  realize  from  your  personal  holdings,  and  are 
we  to  understand  that  you  contemplate  putting 
it  all  into  the  business?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Billy  Van  Buren.  "The  firm 
needs  about  seven  million  in  cash.  Father  has 
three  million  in  Liberties  which  can  be  disposed 
of  at  ninety-three,  and  there  is  another  half  mil- 
lion in  easily  convertible  assets.  I  won  a  half 
million  yesterday  and  expect  to  realize  close  to  a 
million  from  my  personal  belongings.  I  ask  an 
extension  on  the  balance  due  and  for  security 
offer  the  reputation  and  tangible  assets  of  an  old- 
established  firm,  together  with  my  personal  serv- 
ices." 

"Ah!"  said  the  man  at  the  head  of  the  table 
with  a  smile,  "you  are  entering  the  firm  your- 
self?" 

"Of  course,"  assured  Van  Buren,  "I  shall  prob- 
ably be  bumped  around  a  bit  at  first,  but  I've  got 

262 


THOROUGHBREDS 


my  father's  blood  in  me,  and  his  knowledge  of 
the  track.  This  much  I  know  already :  if  you  let 
us  go  to  the  wall,  the  South  American  trade  falls 
into  British  hands,  and  you,  as  bankers,  can't 
afford  to  let  that  happen.  Dalrymple  left  us  as 
part  of  a  conspiracy;  well,  I'm  here  to  take  his 
place.  Load  all  the  weight  on  me  you  want ;  name 
an  advisory  committee  to  guard  against  mistakes 
and  to  tell  me  what  to  do,  and  I'll  give  you  every- 
thing that's  in  me,  and  maybe  a  Httle  bit  more.'* 

The  chairman  directed  a  questioning  glance 
around  the  table.  He  counted  the  nods  of  ap- 
proval and  found  them  in  the  majority.  His  tired 
eyes  lighted. 

"H'm,"  he  commented,  "the  situation  seems  to 
be  clearing  up." 

A  young  man  entered  the  room  and  laid  a  card 
in  front  of  the  chairman,  but  before  the  latter  had 
time  to  read  the  name,  the  door  was  opened  by 
Peggy  Sheridan  herself. 

The  daughter  of  Senator  Sheridan,  attired  in  a 
motor  costume  that  bore  fresh  streaks  of  mud  and 
oil,  strode  straight  up  to  the  man  who  was  on  his 
feet. 

"I'd  have  got  here  sooner,"  she  said  hurriedly, 
"only  I  blew  a  tire  and  the  darned  car  turned 
over.  Father  told  me  where  to  find  you.  He  says 
you've  sold  everything.  Billy — ^you're  in  trouble !" 

263 


RIDERS  UP! 


*'Not  exactly  that,"  demurred  Van  Buren. 
'Tm  merely  an  overnight  entry  In  a  new  race. 
These  gentlemen  are  going  to  back  me,  I  think, 
as  the  new  general  manager  of  Van  Buren  and 
Company,  and  I'm  surrendering  speed  In  favor  of 
class." 

Miss  Sheridan's  eyes  sparkled.  "Can  I  help?" 
she  asked.  "Give  me  fifteen  days  and  I  can 
throw  two  millions  into  the  pot — thirty  days,  and 
I'll  bet  I  can  do  shorthand  and  typewriting.  Now 
don't  reject  me,  Billy,  in  the  presence  of  every- 
body!" 

"Lord  God!"  exclaimed  Billy  Van  Buren. 
"Peggy!" 

The  president  of  the  Columbia  Trust  Com- 
pany leaned  over  and  addressed  the  senior  mem- 
ber of  the  firm  of  Dwight  Robinson.  "No  won- 
der we  won  the  war,"  he  whispered,  "when  we 
have  children  like  that,  eh?" 


IX.     THE  KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

The  field  is  large  and  the  start  is  bad. 
And  the  green  colt  runs  as  he  can; 

But  see  the  weight  that  he  packs,  my  lad. 
Ere  you  brand  him  an  ''also-ran" ! 

*^t  I   A  HAT'S  the  three-eighths  pole,  and  you 
I      mustn't  touch  it!" 

Mrs.  Tupman  contemplated  the  broom 
in  dismay. 

"But,  Tommy,  the  room  must  be  swept,  dear." 

"Not  now,  Mamma;  it's  nice  and  cool,  and  I 
want  General  Jack  to  work  three-quarters  this 
morning,  'cause  he  starts  to-morrow.  And  the 
paddock  is  all  out  of  place.  It  belongs  over  here 
alongside  the  grandstand  like  it  is  in  the  picture. 
And  the  judges'  stand  is  crookedT* 

"Which  is  the  paddock,  dear?" 

^'That  chair  with  the  string  around  it,  and  the 
other  is  the  stables,  and  I  would  like  them  to 
face  the  track,  so  the  horses  can  come  right  out 
through  the  gate." 

"Like  that?" 

"Yes,  and  now  I  am  going  to  bring  out  General 
Jack." 

265 


RIDERS  UP! 


Presently  a  framework  of  twine,  spread  over 
cross  sticks  and  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
yielded  to  a  pull  on  one  end,  and  from  the  oppo- 
site side  an  empty  catsup  bottle,  with  a  purple 
ribbon  tied  around  its  throat,  began  a  spasmodic 
progress  by  means  of  a  wheel  and  a  small  pulley. 
Along  a  second  strand  of  twine  a  smaller  bottle 
decorated  with  a  yellow  label  trailed  the  first 
starter. 

"That's  Yellow-hammer,"  explained  the  owner. 
"General  Jack  doesn't  like  to  work  alone,  but 
you  watch  him  extend  himself  as  soon  as  he  hears 
his  stable-mate  coming  up." 

Mrs.  Tupman  watched  the  two  bottles  as  they 
were  maneuvered  into  position  opposite  the 
three-quarters  pole,  which  was  the  washstand. 
Suddenly  the  miniature  track  tilted,  and  General 
Jack  lurched  forward.  Yellow-hammer  at  his  side. 

"Sure  you  got  him.  Mamma?" 

Mrs.  Tupman  nodded  and  glanced  down  at  the 
stop-watch  in  her  hand.  The  make-believe  thor- 
oughbreds rolled  past  the  half-mile  post,  careened 
around  the  far  turn  and  straightened  out  for  the 
run  home.  Gradually,  General  Jack  assumed  a 
commanding  lead  which  increased  at  the  paddock, 
still  more  as  he  approached  the  judges'  pagoda, 
otherwise  the  bed. 

"Now!" 

266 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

Mrs.  Tupman  pressed  her  thumb  sharply,  and 
then  came  forward  with  the  watch. 

"Why,  he  made  it  in  one-eleven  and  four- 
fifths!"  reported  the  owner  of  the  Tupman  sta- 
bles. "And  the  Tijuana  track  is  over  two  seconds 
slower  than  Belmont.  He's  a  stake-horse, 
Mamma.  You  better  let  me  have  them  now, 
'cause  I  got  to  rub  'em  down." 

Mrs.  Tupman  unrigged  the  bottles  and  put 
them  by  the  pillow. 

"Please,  Tommy,  don't  exert " 

"I  won't,"  he  promised.  "Only  I  got  to  give 
Yellow-hammer  special  attention;  he's  the  best 
horse  I  got." 

"Poor  Yellow-hammer — ^you  never  let  him 
win!" 

"That's  'cause  he's  an  also-ran,  Mamma.  I 
like  also-rans  the  best,  because  there's  always 
something  the  matter  with  them,  and  I  pretend 
that  one  day  I  am  going  to  fix  it." 

Mrs.  Tupman  turned  her  back  quickly,  and  a 
moment  later  found  it  necessary  to  leave  the 
room.  Mothers  sometimes  find  the  road  to  Cal- 
vary a  little  beyond  their  strength. 

At  an  imaginary  feed-trough  General  Jack  and 
Yellow-hammer  reposed  contentedly.  Their 
owner  fumbled  at  the  stop-watch  and  looked  out 
the  window.     A  street-car  passed,  and  he  timed 

267 


RIDERS  UP! 


it  between  telegraph  poles;  a  dog  snooped 
around  the  corner,  and  he  measured  its  progress; 
machines  whizzed  past,  and  he  caught  them  accu- 
rately— likewise  hurrying  business  men,  and 
women  strolling  along  behind  baby-buggies. 

Tommy  like  everything  that  moved.  That  was 
because  he  himself  could  not  move  at  all. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well  if  you  didn't 
visualize  Tommy  too  distinctly.  He  had  very 
large  blue  eyes  set  in  a  very  pale  small  face,  and 
according  to  his  mother's  Bible  he  was  twelve,  or 
should  have  been.  But  Biblical  references  to 
time  are  susceptible  to  various  interpretations. 
Tommy  was  ages  old  in  some  respects;  in  others 
he  had  not  lived  at  all.  He  had  been  in  bed  for  a 
long  time  because  of  something  with  a  big  name 
— it  doesn't  matter  what,  but  it  had  no  business 
picking  on  a  little  fellow  whose  father  was  a 
trainer  of  fast  horses  and  had  always  measured 
life  with  a  stop-watch.  That  should  have  been 
obvious  enough  even  to  the  Great  Handlcapper, 
who  must  surely  have  been  looking  out  the  win- 
dow when  little  Tommy  Tupman  was  sent  to  the 
post  carrying  all  that  weight. 

But,  again,  handlcappers  are  shrewd  judges  of 
quality,  and  when  they  assign  top  weight  to  a 
thoroughbred,  even  a  small  one  like  Tommy  Tup- 

268 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

man,  the  reason  is  sometimes  apparent  after  the 
race  is  run. 

Tommy  inherited  his  father's  estate,  which  was 
exempt  from  taxation  because  it  consisted  prin- 
cipally of  the  watch  and  a  motley  collection  of 
photographs,  notebooks  and  form-charts. 

Mrs.  Tupman  wept  a  great  deal  at  first,  but  of 
course  that  did  not  help ;  so  she  moved  into  a  rear 
upstairs  flat  in  the  Fourth  Ward  and  bought  a 
sewing  machine  on  the  instalment  plan,  and  made 
children's  clothes  for  neighbors. 

Tommy  himself  did  very  well.  He  capitalized 
his  inheritance,  and  fashioned  therefrom  a  world 
of  his  own  in  which  he  was  the  king.  It  was  a 
rather  strange  world,  for  it  existed  for  the  benefit 
of  also-rans.  Tommy  was  not  clear  in  his  own 
mind  about  some  of  the  rules,  but  the  winners 
only  won  because  he  let  them  win,  while  the  also- 
rans- — the  horses  that  finished  out  of  the  money — 
were  always  the  real  winners  because  he  knew 
that  if  he  hadn't  asked  them  to  go  outside  their 
distance,  or  had  given  them  less  weight,  or  a 
better  rider,  or  had  let  them  set  the  pace  as  they 
wanted  to — why,  they  could  have  won,  easily! 

You  see,  Tommy  was  a  student  of  the  speed- 
sheet,  which  is  only  made  for  very  wise  men,  or 
for  little  Tommy  Tupman«,  because  to  apply  it, 
you  must  first  reduce  the  time  made  by  various 

269 


RIDERS  UP  I 


horses  on  different  days  and  over  different  sorts 
of  footing  to  the  common  basis  of  a  standard  fast 
track.  Then  you  must  establish  a  track-variant 
for  the  day,  converting  time  into  speed,  and  trans- 
lating poundage  into  points,  bearing  in  mind  that 
a  horse  runs  his  length  in  a  fifth  of  a  second,  that 
the  weight-bearing  capacity  of  horses  varies,  and 
that  sometimes  in  a  long  race  the  whole  field  is 
pumped  out  at  the  head  of  the  stretch,  so  that  the 
final  time  must  be  discarded  in  favor  of  the  early 
pace  if  the  speed-deductions  are  to  hold. 

If  you  know  all  these  things,  and  fifty  others, 
it  is  theoretically  possible  by  means  of  the  speed- 
sheet  to  forecast  the  actual  performance  of  race- 
horses, always  providing,  of  course,  that  the 
owner  is  trying  and  no  accident  occurs  to  upset 
the  calculations. 

The  Tupman  stable  was  always  trying,  but 
neither  General  Jack  nor  Yellow-hammer  ever 
won.  They  were  likely  always  to  remain  maid- 
ens, unadorned  with  winning  brackets,  because 
their  owner  persisted  in  sending  them  outside 
their  distance,  or  giving  them  too  much  weight, 
or  intrusting  them  to  stable-boys  who  rushed  them 
off  their  feet  so  that  they  had  nothing  left  at  the 
finish.  He  entered  them  both  in  the  Kentucky 
Derby  once,  and  let  a  rank  outsider — a  pepper- 

270 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

can  from  the  Cupboard  Stable — romp  home  all 
by  himself. 

That  was  the  day  Tommy  got  Kressy  to  write 
the  also-ran  letters  which  were  responsible  for  so 
many  things. 

Kressy  was  tall  and  dark  and  young,  and  on 
Monday  afternoons  he  acted  as  starter,  timer 
and  assistant  judge  at  the  private  race  track  of 
His  Majesty.  His  name  was  Dr.  Ward  Kress- 
Inger,  and  he  had  progressed  so  far  In  his  studies 
as  to  conclude  that  there  was  no  God,  and  that 
what  mankind  needed  most  was  not  materia  med- 
ica,  but  sociological  surgery.  When  he  first  met 
Tommy  Tupman,  Kressy  was  more  than  ever  con- 
vinced that  the  only  cure  for  society  lay  in  a 
capital  operation — wherefore  he  made  of  his  pro- 
fession a  cloak,  and  of  his  black  bag  a  receptacle 
for  certain  literature  which  he  distributed  among 
comrades. 

His  convictions  were  expressed  so  forcibly  to 
the  little  group  that  gathered  occasionally  to  dis- 
cuss their  plans,  that  Comrade  Max  Wolfram, 
who  ran  a  cigar-factory  on  Ninth  Street,  ap- 
pointed Kressy  on  a  committee  where  he  could 
have  more  power  and  be  better  watched.  For 
Max  was  really  an  agent  for  the  Department  of 
Justice  and  very  much  interested  In  young  Dr. 
Kressinger's  views. 

271 


RIDERS  UP 


*'The  real  Derby  was  yesterday,"  said  Tommy, 
*'and  Mamma  has  read  me  the  form-chart  out  of 
the  paper.  Now,  I  should  like  you  to  write  the 
letters  for  me.  I  shall  write  to  the  owner  of 
Empress  of  India  first,  because  that  one  propped 
at  the  start,  and  finished  last.  Do  you  think  if 
we  addressed  Mr.  Van  Lessing  at  Churchill 
Downs,  it  would  reach  him,  Kressy?" 

*'If  we  can't  reach  him  one  way,  we  may 
another,"  said  Kressinger  grimly,  and  unscrewed 
his  fountain  pen.     "What  shall  I  write?" 

"You  should  say,"  dictated  His  Majesty,  "that 
we  are  very  sorry  about  what  happened  to  the 
Empress  of  India,  because  the  times  of  the  day 
before  showed  that  the  track  variant  was  almost 
80,  which  meant  that  with  only  121  pounds,  she 
should  have  gone  the  mile  and  a  quarter  in 
2;02  2-5.  That  would  have  made  the  Empress 
win  by  two  lengths,  Kressy." 

"Two  lengths?" 

"Almost  three — ^you  should  say  three,  Kressy, 
'cause  with  that  early  pace  she  would  have  been 
rated  with  the  leaders  instead  of  back  where  she 
usually  is;  so — we  are  very  sorry  that  she  did 
not  win." 

Kressinger's  lips  tightened.  "How  much  money 
would  Lessing  have  won  if  the  Empress  of  India 

272 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

had  not  propped?     I   suppose  you  don't  know 
that.  Tommy?" 

*'0h,  yes,  I  do,  Kressy — It  is  In  the  form-chart. 
There  was  fifty  thousand  added " 

"Think  of  itl"  said  the  amanuensis.  "Fifty 
thousand  dollars  because  an  animal — what  did 
you  say  the  Empress  of  India  did?" 

"Propped — It  is  in  the  footnote.  The  Empress 
reared  up  when  the  barrier  sprang,  Kressy — that 
is  very  bad,  because  sometimes  they  come  down 
sideways  or  turn  around,  and  then  of  course  the 
field  is  ever  so  much  in  the  lead." 

"How  in  the  devil — where  do  you  learn  such 
things.  Tommy?" 

His  Majesty  considered  this  question.  "I  don't 
know,  Kressy;  I  guess  it's  from  the  pictures  and 
the  books,  my  daddy's  books — and  from  just 
thinking.  I  think  an  awful  lot.  We  will  write 
some  more  letters  now — or  are  you  tired, 
Kressy?" 

"Tired?" 

"Don't  you  get  tired,  Kressy?" 

"H'm!  Well,  not  of  writing  letters,"  said 
Kressinger,  and  added  something  under  his 
breath. 

"I  get  tired  sometimes,"  Tommy  confessed, 
"and  it  hurts,  don't  it,  Kressy?" 

"H'm!" 

273 


RIDERS  UP! 


"That's  what  makes  some  horses  also-rans.  I 
always  pretend  that  Yellow-hammer  is  especially 
tired.  I  think  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Jake  Sterling 
now,  and  then  to  Colonel  Rawlings,  and  then  to 
Mr.  Herbert." 

Kressinger  looked  up  quickly.  "Mortimer 
Herbert?'^ 

"Yes,"  said  Tommy.  "He  owns  Star  o'  Dawn, 
which  finished  fourth " 

"Must  you  write  to  him?" 

"It  is  very  important,"  declared  His  Majesty, 
"  'cause  Star  o*  Dawn  carried  my  favorite  colors 
— light  blue  on  silver.  What  color  do  you  like 
best,  Kressy?" 

Kressinger  mused  a  moment,  thinking  of  a 
military  decoration  that  reposed  at  the  bottom 
of  his  trunk.  Those  days  seemed  far  away.  His 
lips  twisted  ironically. 

"There  is  only  one  color  for  also-rans,  Tommy, 
only  one  great  color — the  red  of  purification,  the 
flame  that  reflects  the  heart  of  universal  brother- 
hood, the  blood  of  Adam,  the  clean  red  blood 
that  must  save  the  race.  Yes,  I  think  red  is  my 
favorite." 

"It  is  a  nice  color,"  said  His  Majesty,  politely, 
"but  I  like  light  blue  and  silver  because  they  are 
the  colors  of  the  sky  and  the  stars,  and  those 

274 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

things  do  not  move ;  they  are  like  me,  and  some- 
times I  talk  to  them." 

Kressinger's  pen  traced  idle  circles  and  crosses 
on  the  note-pad.  He  rose  abruptly  and  crossed 
over  to  the  window,  staring  unseeingly  across 
back-yard  treetops  to  the  span  of  street  beyond. 
Once  he  used  to  dream  of  taking  Tommy  Tup- 
man  In  his  arms  when  the  great  day  came,  and 
making  a  speech  from  the  courthouse  steps  that 
should  live  in  history;  but  that  was  before  he 
knew  Tommy  very  well.  Now,  it  appeared  that 
His  Majesty's  soul,  or  whatever  one  called  it, 
contradicted  the  twisted  body,  and  the  example 
was  not  as  clear  as  It  might  otherwise  have  been. 

"If  you  are  tired,"  suggested  the  voice  from 
the  bed,  "we  will  only  write  to  Mr.  Herbert  to- 
day, and  Mamma  can  send  the  other  letters  to- 
morrow." 

Kressinger  wheeled  back  to  the  chair,  reached 
for  the  notebook,  and  considered.  There  was  a 
very  good  reason  why  he  should  not  write  to  the 
Herberts,  of  all  people — but  the  letter  would 
certainly  never  reach  the  mining  magnate,  and 
anyway  It  was  Tommy  Tupman  who  was  do- 
ing It. 

"I'm  not  at  all  tired.  Tommy,"  he  assured  him; 
"what  shall  I  say?" 

"You  should  say,  Kressy,  that  they  are  not  to 
275 


RIDERS  UP! 


feel  badly  because  Star  o*  Dawn  was  an  also-ran, 
because  he  comes  from  the  Glorloso  line,  and 
they  are  strongest  in  the  fourth  year.  You  see, 
he  really  carried  very  much  more  than  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-one  pounds  because  his  jockey 
only  weighed  ninety-two,  and  that  means  twenty- 
nine  pounds  of  lead,  which  is  one  and  a  half  times 
as  heavy  as  live  weight.  I  think,  Kressy,  that 
Star  o'  Dawn  really  won,  because  he  did  one-half 
point  better  than  his  figure.  Do  you  think  he 
would  send  me  a  picture  of  Star  o'  Dawn, 
Kressy?" 

"We  will  ask  him.  Shall  I  sign  it  "Tommy 
Tupman?'' 

"Yes." 

Kressinger  penned  the  name  thoughtfully  and 
then  wrote  underneath — "The  little  king  of  the 
also-rans." 

There  were  other  letters,  all  devoted  to  horses 
who  had  lost,  and  His  Highness  explained  very 
clearly  how  each  animal  had  really  run  his  race, 
all  difficulties  considered,  and  therefore  was  to 
be  considered  a  winner.  For  instance,  there  was 
Gray  Daughter,  who  had  the  misfortune  to 
draw  the  outside  position,  whereas  she  was  at 
her  best  when  running  on  the  rail;  and  there  was 
Knight  Norfolk,  whom  the   footnote  said  was 

276 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

pinched  off  three  times,  and  coming  like  a  whirl- 
wind at  the  end. 

"Don't  you  see,  Kressy,  the  also-rans  really 
did  ever  so  much  better  than  those  that  finished 
in  the  money?  I  think  it  is  lots  more  fun  to  be 
an  also-ran." 

"You  do,  eh?" 

**  'Cause  they  have  to  keep  on  wishing  and 
trying,  and  I  like  that  best.  If  I  let  Yellow- 
hammer  or  General  Jack  win,  I  don't  think  they 
would  do  as  well  any  more,  'cause  now  they  know 
they  must  improve.'* 

It  was  a  strange  viewpoint.  Dr.  Kressinger's 
finely  chiseled  features  were  softened  in  revery. 

"Is  there  anything  you'd  like  especially, 
Tommy?"  the  Doctor  asked  presently. 

His  Majesty  was  silent  a  moment.  He  was 
always  thoughtful  when  any  one  offered  him  any- 
thing. "I  like  lots  of  things,  Kressy,"  he  con- 
fessed, "but  I  get  to  thinking  about  it,  and  then 
it  seems  that  I  don't  really  need  them,  after  all. 
There  is  no  use  my  wanting  what  I  can't  use,  is 
there,  Kressy?" 

"No,"  said  Kressinger,  "probably  not — prob- 
ably not!" 

He  gathered  up  the  letters  and  went  out,  prom- 
ising to  return  again  the  following  Monday;  and 
this  was  the  night  that  down  at  Max  Wolfram's 

277 


RIDERS  UP! 


cigar-store,  the  executive  committee  issued  the 
"Great  Call."  There  were  many  letters,  all  of 
them  in  code,  and  they  summoned  to  a  conference 
such  men  as  Iram  Bonfield,  of  Seattle;  Olof  Krun- 
sen,  of  San  Francisco;  Ryan,  of  Brooklyn,  and 
Wyckoffsky,  of  Philadelphia,  who  were  dark 
horses  in  the  Great  Handicap  of  the  Also-Rans. 

Dr.  Ward  Kressinger  did  not  write  any  of  the 
letters.  He  was  not  even  present  when  they  were 
written.  That  was  because  he  was  detained  at  the 
corner  of  Ninth  and  Elm  streets  by  Mrs.  Luiza 
Vezina,  who  ran  shrieking  from  her  teneinent 
into  the  darkness,  crying:  *' Santa  Maria — un 
dottore!     Un  dottore  per  bamhina  mia!'* 

She  recognized  Kressinger's  black  bag,  and 
made  for  him.  In  her  arms  she  clutched  some- 
thing in  a  smoking  blanket.  Kressinger  took  it 
from  her  grasp,  and  the  heat  seared  his  hands. 
The  bundle  writhed.  He  jumped  in  the  path  of 
an  automobile,  and  brakes  ground  while  the 
driver  swore. 

"Emergency  hospital,"  said  Kressinger,  "two 
blocks  up  and  then  to  the  left.  Quick,  man — or 
I'll  be  cooked  tool" 

So,  while  Max  Wolfram  was  supervising  the 
council  of  comrades  five  blocks  distant,  Dr.  Ward 
Kressinger,  his  hands  very  shockingly  burned. 
Stood  over   the  blackened   form   of  little   Elsie 

278 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

Vezina,  who  clung  to  life  so  very  hard  that  it 
was  necessary  to  coat  her  blackened  body  with 
air-excluding  salve  as  a  man  might  plaster  the 
wall  of  a  house,  and  also  use  very  much  mor- 
phine, until  mercy  was  granted  in  the  early 
morning. 

In  due  time  the  also-ran  letters  reached  their 
various  destinations — all  except  one.  Mortimer 
Herbert  had  the  misfortune  to  be  killed  in  an 
automobile  accident,  and  so  he  never  knew  that 
Star  o'  Dawn  figured  to  carry  weight  much  better 
in  his  fourth  year.  Tommy  Tupman's  letter, 
with  others  that  seemed  to  be  of  a  personal 
nature,  were  turned  over  by  a  lawyer  to  Miss 
Dorothy  Herbert,  along  with  a  million  dollars 
or  so,  and  the  beautiful  Miss  Herbert  became 
more  than  ever  a  favorite  in  the  Social  Sweep- 
stakes. 

It  was  weeks  after  her  father's  funeral  before 
Dorothy  Herbert  got  around  to  Tommy  Tup- 
man's  letter.  She  read  the  missive  one  morning, 
in  the  library  of  the  stone  mansion  on  Cypress 
Drive.  It  was  tucked  between  an  invitation  from 
the  Carroll  Browns  to  visit  them  in  Honolulu, 
and  a  note  from  Whit  Spence,  saying  he  was 
getting  up  a  party  for  the  Winter  Horse  Show, 
and  could  he  have  the  honor? 

She  might  have  dismissed  His  Majesty's  letter, 
279 


RIDERS  UP 


as  beyond  her  comprehension,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  handwriting,  particularly  that  curious  upward 
twist  of  the  k  in  kin^.  Miss  Herbert  read  the 
letter  three  times,  and  then  went  upstairs  to  the 
escritoire  in  her  bedroom,  and  resurrected  a  bun- 
dle of  letters  from  a  drawer  that  was  always 
locked.  These  letters  had  the  mark  of  the  mili- 
tary censor,  and  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner  of 
the  envelopes  was  an  address  culminating  in  the 
mystic  "A.E.F."  She  spread  several  letters  out 
before  her  and  compared  them  with  Tommy  Tup- 
man's  missive.  Her  white  teeth  bit  meditatively 
at  the  tip  of  a  penholder. 

In  her  own  way  Dorothy  Herbert  was  a  direct- 
actionist.  Two  hours  later  a  limousine  was 
threading  its  way  across  town,  toward  the  North 
Bridge  and  the  unfamiliar  neighborhood  that 
spread  beyond.  Among  the  rear  cushions  sat  the 
daughter  of  the  late  Mortimer  Herbert  looking 
dreamily  out  the  window,  and  by  her  side, 
wrapped  carefully  in  tissue  paper,  was  the  best 
portrait  of  Star  o'  Dawn  she  could  find. 

It  was  Mrs.  Tupman  who  came  to  the  door, 
drying  her  hands  on  an  apron. 

*'Good  morning,"  smiled  Miss  Herbert.  "Is 
this  where  the  little  king  of  the  also-rans  lives? 
I  have  brought  the  picture  of  Star  o'  Dawn." 

Mrs.  Tupman  looked  bewildered. 
280 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 


"Little  klng- 


"Master  Tommy  Tupman,  I  mean.  I  am  Miss 
Herbert,  you  see."  Her  hands  fumbled  in  a 
velvet  purse  and  produced  the  letter.  "The  re- 
quest interested  me  greatly.   May  I  see  Tommy?" 

Mrs.  Tupman  read  the  letter,  and  her  face 
cleared.  "Oh,  Tommy  must  have  got  Dr.  Kress- 
inger  to  write  the  letter.  It  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  answer  it  like  this — but  he  is  rather  shy 
of  strangers.  You  see,  he  has  been  in  bed  for 
such  a  long  time " 

"In  bed?" 

"Yes,  he  cannot  move  at  all,  you  know — except 
one  hand.  It  is  his  spine.  But  he  loves  race- 
horses  " 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Herbert.  "Oh  I  How  old 
is  he?" 

"Just  twelve." 

"Of  all  things!"  exclaimed  the  beautiful  Miss 
Herbert.  "Where  is  he?  No,  no,  no — Mrs. 
Tupman — I  am  going  in!  You  must  not  try  to 
stop  me." 

So  that  was  the  way  the  little  king  of  the  also- 
rans  came  to  receive  in  audience  the  owner  of 
Star  o'  Dawn.  First  it  was  with  the  bed  shielded 
by  a  Japanese  screen,  with  a  long-legged  white 
stork  looming  against  a  blue  sky.  His  Majesty 
usually  protected  himself   from   strangers   that 

281 


RIDERS  UP! 


way,  because  they  stood  by  his  bed  and  looked 
at  him,  making  funny  little  noises  with  their 
tongues  that  i  e  did  not  like. 

But  soon  the  screen  was  down,  Miss  Herbert 
had  been  admitted  to  royal  favor,  and  His  Majes- 
ty's eyes  were  feasting  on  the  picture  of  Star  o' 
Dawn,  while  his  ears  drank  in  the  wonderful  story 
of  the  great  mare,  Dawn  o'  Virginia,  with  certain 
embellishments  which  the  daughter  of  Mortimer 
Herbert  invented  on  the  spot. 

Later,  Tommy  Tupman  brought  out  General 
Jack  and  Yellow-hammer  for  an  exercise  gallop, 
and  let  his  visitor  hold  the  watch,  while  the  stable 
companions  breezed  a  half-mile  between  the  wash- 
stand  and  the  bookcase.  He  explained  his  theo- 
ries about  also-rans  so  very  clearly  that  Miss 
Herbert  understood,  and  remained  very  still,  sit- 
ting there  with  her  eyes  on  the  small  pale  face 
turned  sidewise  on  the  pillow. 

"Everything  about  you  is  very  pretty,  Isri*t  it?" 
he  said  wistfully.  "Mamma  hasn't  got  as  nice 
clothes,  or  as  pretty  rings,  and  her  cheeks  aren't 
the  color  of  yours.  I  guess  she's  older.  I  guess 
you're  not  an  also-ran,  are  you?  Kressy's  an 
also-ran,  he  says." 

"Kressy?" 

"Dr.  Kressinger,  you  know.  He  comes  on 
Mondays  to  see  me — only  he  didn't  come  last 

282 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

Monday.  I  wish  you  were  an  also-ran,  'cause  I 
like  them." 

Miss  Herbert  bit  her  lip  and  came  forward  to 
sit  on  the  bed  and  run  a  light  hand  over  the  King's 
high  forehead. 

"Dear  child,"  she  whispered,  "what  ever  made 
you  think  I  wasn't  an  also-ran?  The  only  thing 
I  ever  tried  to  win,  I  lost.  And  I'm  not  really 
pretty — Fm  just  fixed  up." 

His  Highness  betrayed  quick  concern. 

"Why  didn't  you  win?"  he  demanded. 

Miss  Herbert  pursed  her  lips  thoughtfully.  "I 
don't  know,  Tommy.  I  guess  I  didn't  just  meas- 
ure up.  Maybe  a  little  too  much  weight,"  she 
added  whimsically.  "Some  day  I'll  tell  you  about 
it.  I'm  going  to  call  regularly,  you  know — and 
we  are  going  to  be  good  friends.  I  want  you  to 
give  me  a  special  name,  too — the  way  you  do  for 
Dr.  Kressinger." 

"I  think  I  will  call  you  'Lady,'  "  said  His  High- 
ness,  "r — just  Lady — 'cause  there  was  a  Lady 
Courageous  once — it  is  in  my  daddy's  book  with 
a  picture;  and  she  was  an  also-ran  until  Sandy 
McKee  trained  her  for  almost  a  year,  and  then 
she  came  out  in  bandages  and  beat  Lord  Ivan  at 
Latonia  a  neck  on  the  post  and  going  away.  My 
daddy  has  it  down  in  the  book  that  it  was  a  very 
wonderful    race,    'cause    Lady    Courageous    ran 

283 


RIDERS  UP! 


twelve  points  above  her  mark,  and  that  was  'cause 
she  loved  Mr.  McKee,  and  they  both  had  waited 
such  a  long  time." 

"I  see,"  nodded  Miss  Herbert.  "I  shall  be 
Lady,  then — lady  In  waiting."    She  rose  abruptly. 

''Tommy,  I  don't  think  I  should  say  anything 
to  any  one,  if  I  were  you,  about  our  little 
visits " 

"Not  even  to  Kressy?" 

"Not  even  to  Kressy,  dear.  It  will  just  be  a 
jolly  little  secret  between  ourselves,  and  I  will 
come  on  Wednesdays  so  that  you  can  show  me 
all  about  the  speed-sheet.  Is  there  something  you 
would  like  me  to  bring  you.  Tommy?" 

"Yes,  I  would  like  some  new  string  for  the 
track  over  at  the  far  turn  where  It  is  knotted. 
Yellow-hammer  most  always  stumbles  when  he 
strikes  that  place — It  is  like  the  Pemberton  track, 
which  my  book  says  Is  most  always  cuppy.  I 
would  like  It  to  be  the  Belmont  track,  which  Is 
very  fast.  I  would  also  like  you  to  put  Star  o' 
Dawn  on  top  of  the  paddock.  I  will  pretend  that 
is  a  very  special  stall." 

Miss  Herbert  complied,  and  then  leaning  over 
the  bed  put  her  lips  to  Tommy  Tupman's  fore- 
head.    He  flushed  and  looked  up  shyly. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 

"Just  because,"  explained  the  lady  in  waiting, 
284 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

"I  couldn't  help  it!  Good-by,  Tommy,  and  I 
shall  bring  some  brand-new  twine  on  Wednes- 
day." 

"Good-by,  Lady  I"  said  His  Majesty. 

Before  reentering  her  limousine.  Miss  Herbert 
interviewed  Mrs.  Tupman  and  learned  exactly 
what  sort  of  weight  it  was  that  had  been  assigned 
to  the  small  monarch  of  the  also-rans.  Then  she 
drove  straight  to  her  family  physician,  who  re- 
ferred her  to  a  distinguished  surgeon,  and  the 
latter  took  a  long  time  to  explain  a  simple  thing, 
which  was  that  the  one  man  who  might  have 
done  something  for  little  Tommy  Tupman  was 
dead,  and  the  medical  world  was  helpless. 

Next,  Miss  Herbert  visited  the  toy-department 
of  a  great  store,  and  for  an  hour  clerks  and  even 
the  department  manager  himself  waited  on  her — 
until  out  of  a  wealth  of  imported  novelties,  a 
miniature  racing-establishment  materialized.  But 
on  her  way  down  the  elevator,  the  tactful  Miss 
Herbert  remembered  poor  Yellow-hammer  and 
the  faithful  General  Jack,  and  she  realized  that 
she  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a  diplomatic  blunder. 
The  elated  salesman  saw  her  returning,  and 
anticipated  an  additional  investment. 

*T  wish  to  cancel  the  order,"  she  told  him. 
*Tou  may  give  me,  instead,  a  ball  of  twine — yes, 
just  a  ball  of  twine." 

285 


RIDERS  UP! 


In  the  evening  Miss  Herbert  wrote  a  polite 
note  of  regret  to  Whittlngton  Spence,  and  an 
equally  polite  note  to  the  Carroll  Browns,  and  a 
great  many  other  courteous  missives — all  ex- 
tremely regretful.  It  was  really  quite  a  negative 
day  for  the  usually  positive  Miss  Herbert,  and 
it  ended  much  as  it  had  begun — at  the  little 
writing-desk  in  her  bedroom,  with  a  half-dozen 
letters  spread  before  her,  all  of  them  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Tommy  Tupman's  amanuensis. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  pronounced  character- 
istics of  also-rans  that  on  certain  days  and  on 
certain  kinds  of  track  they  behave  in  a  very 
peculiar  manner.  The  same,  for  that  matter, 
may  be  said  about  certain  kinds  of  favorites. 
Even  her  most  ardent  admirers  might  have  experi- 
enced some  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  daughter 
of  Mortimer  Herbert  the  following  Wednesday 
afternoon  when  she  visited  the  court  of  His 
Majesty.  She  had  her  back  turned  to  the  door, 
and  was  standing  on  a  stool  endeavoring  to  re- 
build the  turn  at  the  five-eighths  pole,  when 
Dr.  Ward  Kressinger,  his  hands  still  bandaged, 
entered  unannounced. 

^'Why,  hello,  Kressy!"  cried  His  Majesty.  ''I 
have  some  more  string,  and  this  is  Lady — my  new 
friend.  She  is  trying  to  fix  the  track  so  it  won't 
be  cuppy." 

286 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

''So  I  see,"  acknowledged  the  physician  politely. 
"My  hands  are  rather  out  of  condition,  but  per- 
haps I  can " 

And  then  he  recognized  Lady. 

Miss  Herbert  looked  down  and  smiled.  Her 
quick  laugh  bridged  the  situation. 

"Dr.  Kressinger  and  I  are  old  friends,  Tommy. 
— ^Ward,  do  you  think  you  could  manage  this 
pulley?  .  .  .  Why,  what  happened  to  your 
hands?" 

Kressinger  had  to  fight  for  his  composure,  but 
finally  he  managed  it.  "I  burned  them  a  little 
bit — nothing  serious.  I  think  If  you  pass  the 
string  under  the  top  wheel,  and  then  over " 

"Like  that?" 

"That's  it,  and  then  down  the  home  stretch, 
so.  — How's  that,  Tommy?  Pretty  good  track 
superintendent,  isn't  she?" 

"Yes,"  said  His  Majesty.  "And  I  am  glad  you 
know  her  already.  She  Is  lots  prettier  when  she 
Is  fixed  up." 

"Why,  Tommy r 

"Well,"  argued  His  Majesty,  "you  had  a  lot 
of  pretty  rings  the  last  time,  ^nd  your  clothes 
were  a  lot  nicer,  and  your  hair " 

"I  think,"  suggested  Kressy,  "that  we  had 
better  try  General  Jack  and  Yellow-hammer  on 

287 


RIDERS  UP  I 


the  new  track  to  make  sure  that  It  works  prop- 
erly.'^ 

That  was  really  a  very  important  little  speech, 
because  had  Kressy  laughed,  or  even  smiled.  Miss 
Herbert  would  never  have  forgiven  him,  and  His 
Majesty's  court  would  have  been  disrupted  on 
the  spot.  Instead  of  that  there  was  an  excellent 
work-out  between  the  stable  companions,  and 
General  Jack  breezed  a  half-mile  over  the  new 
track  in  .48  with  his  mouth  open,  Kressy  holding 
the  watch. 

That  was,  of  course,  a  smart  performance,  and 
it  should  have  elicited  great  enthusiasm  from  the 
owner  of  the  Tupman  string.  Kressinger  knew 
from  experience  that  such  should  be  the  case.  He 
was  strangely  perturbed  by  the  King's  apathy. 

*'What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  quickly. 
"Doesn't  it  work  all  right?" 

His  Majesty  inclined  his  head  against  the 
pillow.  "Yes,"  he  acknowledged,  "that  is  win- 
ning time.  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  quite-^^ 
so  fast.'* 

Perhaps  It  was  that  the  sky  was  cloudy,  or  His 
Highness  was  not  used  to  more  than  one  visitor 
at  a  time.  He  looked  suddenly  frailer  than  usual. 
Kressinger's  dark  eyes  expanded,  for  there  Is  a 
mystic  kinship  between  also-rans. 

"Tired?"  he  asked,  and  strove  to  put  the  ques- 
288 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

tlon  lightly,  but  the  lady  in  waiting  recognized 
the  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  shot  him  a  quick 
glance. 

"Not  very,"  whispered  His  Majesty,  "just  a 
little.    What  is  back  of  the  sky,  Kressy?" 

Kressinger  hesitated  and  looked  at  Miss  Her- 
bert, who  came  forward  quickly. 

"Why  there  is  Some  One  who  looks  after  little 
boys,  and  makes  everything  come  out  all  right, 
dear,"  she  explained.  "Now,  you  must  try  to  go 
to  sleep,  and  Kressy  and  I  will  come  back  some 
afternoon  when  you  are  feeling  stronger." 

His  eyes  assented.  "If  you  will  put  the  watch 
here  where  I  can  see  it,"  he  whispered,  "I  can 
time  the  clouds.  Is  it  the  Some  One  that  makes 
the  clouds  move?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "but  don't  think  about  it 
too  much.    Good-by,  Tommy." 

"Good-by,  Lady — good-by,  Kressy." 

**Good-by,"  said  Kressinger. 

Out  in  the  hallway  the  lady  in  waiting  turned 
upon  the  official  timer. 

"Ward,  he's  not  going?  Not  without  ever 
having  lived?  You're  a  doctor — isn't  there  any- 
thing that  can  be  done?" 

Head  down,  Kressinger  studied  his  bandaged 
hands.  "Perhaps  now,  you  will  understand  the 
wall  that  arose  between  us.     There  are  so  very 

289 


RIDERS  UP! 


many  Tommy  Tupmans — so  many  also-rans — 
and  they  have  no  chance  under  the  present  sys* 
tem.  It  Is  far  worse  in  Europe.  I  v/ent  there  to 
study  one  thing,  as  you  know;  and  I  learned  many 
others.  When  I  came  back,  such  things  as  your 
family  stood  for  seemed — forgive  me — a  little 
criminal.  There  were  only  two  paths  open  to 
me:  you — and  what  I  considered  my  duty.*' 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Miss  Herbert. 
*'You  had  to  choose  duty  because  you  were  a 
born  physician,  isn't  that  it?" 

Kressinger  looked  up  suddenly,  and  she  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  flooded. 

*'It  is  kind  of  you  to  put  it  that  way,"  he  said 
brokenly.  '*But  I  was  never  anything  but  an 
also-ran.  I  have  tried  to  do  what  seemed  right 
at  the  time,  but  the  path  always  grows  harder. 
I  gave  up  you;  I  surrendered  my  profession;  now 
it  seems  that  I  must  give  up  Tommy — and  God 
help  me,  I  love  you  both  so  very  much!" 

They  were  silent  a  moment. 

*'I  went  to  see  Marshiield  at  the  Children's 
Hospital  yesterday,"  said  the  lady  in  waiting. 

Kressinger  nodded.  "He  knows  the  case.  I 
brought  him  here  once,  and  we  made  a  lumbar 
puncture  for  a  test  of  the  spinal  fluid ^" 

"He  said,"  continued  Miss  Herbert,  "that  if 
Tommy  continued  to  like  things  that  moved,  he 

290 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

would  live,  but  that  he  would  never  be  able  him- 
self to  move,  unless  some  one  took  up  the  research 
work  where  Heifetz  of  Vienna  left  off,  and  found 
the  serum  for  which  the  world  is  waiting." 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence.  Kress- 
inger  broke  it. 

"You  know,  then,  that  I  was  Heifetz's  pupil 
when  the  war  broke  out?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Marshfield  said  he 
understood  you  were  with  him  when  he  died. 
He  said  that  no  young  doctor  could  afford  to 
devote  his  life  to  such  experiments,  for  it  meant 
sacrificing  everything,  and  then  probably  failure 
in  the  end." 

The  lady  in  waiting  laid  her  hand  on  Kressy's 
coat-sleeve. 

"Ward,"  she  pleaded,  "it  may  seem  a  million- 
to-one  shot,  but  surely  if  you  help  little  Tommy 
Tupmans,  you  are  helping  the  world." 

Kressinger  eyed  her  wistfully.  "And  so  I  give 
up  still  another  dream,"  he  mused.  "Yesterday  I 
was  to  operate  on  society;  to-day  I  am  committed 
permanently  to  the  company  of  rabbits  and 
guinea  pigs  and  white  mice — all  because  the  little 
king  of  the  also-rans  admits  to  being  tired." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  flame  of  the 
visionary  was  already  illuminating  his  finely  cut 

291 


RIDERS  UP! 


features.  The  lady  In  waiting  held  out  her  hand 
Impulsively,  and  he  grasped  It. 

"Good  luck!"  she  said. 

"Walt,"  he  reminded  her.  "You  forget  that 
the  little  fellow  must  want  to  go  on  living." 

Miss  Herbert  smiled  mistily.  "Suppose,  Ward, 
that  you  leave  that  part  of  It  to  me?" 

So  Dr.  Ward  Kresslnger  went  no  more  to  Max 
Wolfram's  cigar-store,  which  was  just  as  well, 
since  Max  took  the  trouble  himself  to  find  out 
why,  and,  being  a  man  of  considerable  parts,  kept 
his  conclusions  to  himself,  but  at  the  proper  time, 
saw  to  it  that  the  balance  of  the  Council  of  Com- 
rades was  quietly  seized  for  deportation. 

Dorothy  Herbert  made  two  Important  invest- 
ments, and  gave  them  both  away.  One  repre- 
sented an  even  million  dollars  and  was  for  the 
construction  of  the  Tommy  Tupman  Children's 
Hospital,  permanently  endowed.  The  other  was 
a  more  modest  affair — only  sixteen  hundred 
dollars — but  it  was  the  highest  price  ever  paid 
for  a  month-old  puppy.  Of  course,  this  was  an 
exceptional  sort  of  puppy,  sired  by  the  imported 
greyhound  Wellington  out  of  Lady  Lightning, 
the  pick  of  the  litter. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  assured  old  man  McTIgue, 
"there's  a  dog  that  will  one  day,  with  the  right 
kind  of  handling,  run  the  five-sixteenths  in  close 

292 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

to  thirty  seconds;  mark  my  words,  ma'am,  that 
pup  will  outrun  his  own  shadow!" 

All  of  this  information  Miss  Herbert  treasured 
up  for  transmittal  to  the  King  when  she  brought 
the  absurd  little  long-legged  creature  into  the 
royal  presence  in  order  that  His  Highness  should 
desire  to  live. 

We  will  have  to  pretend  that  the  blue  screen 
with  the  white  stork  was  in  the  way,  for  It  would 
be  lese-majeste  to  Intrude  upon  that  presentation 
ceremony.  Even  Kressy  and  the  lady  In  waiting 
deemed  It  necessary  to  withdraw  for  a  little  while. 

Later  they  went  back,  and  discovered  that  the 
royal  pet  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  all  the 
furniture,  and  been  christened  Lord  Bumps,  and 
was  now  asleep  under  the  judges'  pagoda. 

Miss  Herbert  was  inclined  to  be  disappointed 
until  Kressy  explained  that  lots  of  good  horses 
are  called  sleepers,  and  they  always  come  to  life 
at  the  most  unexpected  times,  and  especially  when 
the  price  is  right.  Nevertheless  they  stirred  up 
Lord  Bumps,  and  shooed  him  around  the  room, 
while  His  Highness  timed  him  between  every 
post. 

"I  love  Lord  Bumps,"  he  told  them,  "  'cause  I 
own  him,  and  I  don't  have  to  pretend  that  he  Is 
alive.  You  don't  suppose  he  will  mind  If  I  don't 
let  him  run  so  very  fast,  do  you?" 

293 


RIDERS  UP! 


*'No,"  Kressy  assured  him,  "it  will  be  all  right 
for  him  to  be  an  also-ran;  but  some  day  we  will 
tell  you  of  an  idea  that  none  but  the  Lady  could 
have  thought  of,  and  maybe  you  will  like  him  to 
go  fast.    She  is  a  very  wonderful  lady,  Tommy." 

"I  love  her,"  stoutly  proclaimed  His  Highness. 
**Don't  you,  Kressy?" 

"Always  have,"  he  answered. 

Tommy  looked  at  the  beautiful  Miss  Herbert. 
"I  love  Kressy,"  he  challenged. 

"Do  you?"  smiled  the  lady  in  waiting.  "Why, 
I  do  tool" 

The  new  Tommy  Tupman  Children's  Hospital 
overlooks  the  upper  end  of  the  lake.  Sight-seeing 
busses  operate  along  the  boulevard  below,  and 
leather-lunged  pilots  announce  through  mega- 
phones to  tourists  that  the  stone  bungalow  on 
the  eminence  to  the  left  is  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Kressinger,  daughter  of  the  late  Mortimer  Her- 
bert. Her  husband  is  the  distinguished  scientist 
whose  experiments  in  the  cure  of  spinal  meningitis 
have  attracted  the  attention  of  the  medical  world. 

But  not  even  the  chariot  orators  know  that 
behind  the  high  elm  trees  which  flank  the  bun- 
galow there  is  a  sixteenth-of-a-mile  replica  of  the 
Belmont  course,  with  a  paddock  and  stables  and 
judges'  pagoda;  and  the  track  is  always  fast, 
because  it  is  macadamized.     Further,  the  inside 

294 


KING  OF  THE  ALSO-RANS 

rail  is  padded  all  the  way  round,  so  that  there  can 
be  no  accident  at  the  turns. 

On  warm  mornings  Lord  Bumps — fat  and  dis- 
gracefully out  of  condition — is  brought  from  the 
stables  by  a  groom.  Then  His  Majesty  appears, 
lying  prone  on  a  little  coaster,  equipped  with  four 
rubber-tired  wheels.  He  wears  a  jockey's  cap 
of  pale  blue  and  silver.  The  vehicle  is  piloted 
into  place  at  the  barrier,  and  Tommy  Tupman 
rests  one  hand  on  a  strap  which  girths  Lord 
Bumps. 

A  glance  at  the  stop-watch  on  the  dashboard,  a 
look  at  the  groom,  and  the  barrier  goes  up.  They 
are  off!  Lord  Bumps  has  never  worked  five- 
sixteenths  better  than  3:49  2-5,  but  His  Majest}^ 
has  it  figured  out  according  to  the  speed-sheet  that 
such  a  mark  is  twenty  points  above  the  handicap 
figure,  and  therefore  the  son  of  Wellington  is 
really  entitled  to  the  Winner's  circle. 

Sometimes  a  man  in  a  white  apron  emerges 
from  his  laboratory  long  enough  to  watch  these 
work-outs  and  compliment  His  Highness.  Then 
he  goes  thoughtfully  into  his  hermitage  again,  and 
if  you  would  accept  Tommy  Tupman's  word  for 
it,  plays  all  day  long  with  guinea  pigs  and  rabbits. 

Of  course,  no  one  can  really  tell  yet;  but 
Kressinger  is  quite  a  wonderful  man,  and  what 
is  more  important,  his  soul  is  in  his  work. 

295 


X.     THE  EMPTY  STALL 

A  lion  and  a  horse  one  day  debated  which 
Of  them  possessed  the  most  discriminating  sight; 
A  hair  all  white  in  milk  the  lion  saw  at  night; 
The  horse  by  night  perceived  a  sable  hair  in  pitch. 

**T  DIDN'T  get  that  last  one,"  said  Henry 

I  the  Rat,  "you're  on  my  cronk. ear;  just  a 
minute  'til  I  turn  over." 

The  Information  Kid  elevated  the  wick  of  the 
stable  lamp,  and  waited  until  his  colleague  had 
readjusted  a  pudgy  frame  on  a  straw  pallet.  Then 
he  re-read  aloud  the  Arabian  legend.  Henry 
blinked  thoughtfully. 

"I'd  hang  up  both  numbers  if  I  was  judging  It. 
Looks  like  fifty-fifty  to  me." 

The  Information  Kid  demurred  scornfully.  '*I 
say  the  horse  has  the  edge.  Milk  is  easier  to  see 
at  night  time  than  pitch,  ain't  it?  Here's  another 
one: 

Haymour,  the  peerless  chestnut  steed 
Of  Hussein,  sheik  of  El  Med«en, 
Was  said  to  be  so  light  of  foot 
That  on  a  woman  s  bosom  he 
Could  dance,  nor  leave  the  slightest  bruise* 
296 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


'That'll  be  about  all  of  that  stuff,"  protested 
the  Rat.  "The  guy  who  wrote  that  was  dizzy. 
Any  time  I'd  let  a  goat  dance  on  my  chest " 

"You  don't  get  the  idea  at  all,"  said  the  Kid, 
"this  stuff  is  poetry,  and  poetry  Is  supposed  to  be 
mysterious.  You  get  a  kick  from  doping  it  out. 
You  ain't  going  to  know  nothing  about  horses, 
Henry,  until  you  go  back  into  history  and  read 
the  yarn  about  Kaureen,  the  mare  of  Solomon, 
and  the  story  of  Labia  and  Abou  el  Mahr." 

"Who  did  they  ever  beat?" 

"They  beat  hell;  that's  what  they  did!  Ain't 
I  been  trying  to  tell  you  all  night  that  if  a  guy 
has  a  good  horse,  he's  jake  for  life?  You  want 
to  read  up  about  Alexander  the  Great,  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  Napoleon,  and  Grant  and  Lee. 
You  don't  see  no  statues  of  those  guys  without 
their  horses.  King  Richard  lost  out  because  he 
couldn't  get  a  horse.  And  there  was  Paul  Revere, 
and  General  Sheridan — he  booted  a  horse  for 
twenty  miles  and  come  under  the  wire  just  in  time 
to  save  the  day " 

^*  Twenty  miles  P* — echoed  Henry — "now  I 
know  you're  lying.  There  ain't  no  dog  in  the 
country  that  can  run  half  that  distance  unless  he's 
tied  to  a  train." 

*Tll  massage  you  with  a  pair  of  fives  if  you 
297 


RIDERS  UP! 


tells  me  I'm  lying.  Go  look  it  up  in  the  public 
library  to-morrow  night." 

Henry  demurred  sleepily.  "I  got  passes  for 
that  racing  picture  up  at  the  Empress." 

*'What  racing  picture?" 

*Them  Four  Horsemen." 

The  Information  Kid  stared.  "You  wouldn't 
understand  that  picture,  Henry.  You  don't  know 
nothing  about  the  Scriptures." 

"Maybe  not,"  Henry  acknowledged,  "but  I 
passed  right  by  where  they  come  from.  You  was 
with  me,  wasn't  you?" 

"What  you  talking  about?" 

"Po-kyp-sie — that's  where  them  horsemen  come 
from.    Ain't  you  seen  it  on  the  billboards?" 

"Apocalypse,"  corrected  the  Information  Kid 
wearily.     "Henry,  you're  awful  dumb " 

"Well,  where  is  Apocalypse  if  you're  such  a 
wise  guy?" 

"It's  in  the  Bible  somewhere,  and  it  hasn't  got 
nothing  to  do  with  racing." 

The  Rat  squeaked  his  disgust.  "I  thought  there 
was  something  phoney  about  it,  or  Father  Fred 
wouldn't  have  been  so  free  with  those  passes. 
Let's  go  to  sleep." 

The  student  of  Arabian  poetry  extinguished 
the  light,  and  laid  himself  down  on  a  stable  cot. 
Presently,  the  darkness  of  the  tackle  room  held 

298 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


no  sound  save  the  gentle  breathing  of  Henry  the 
Rat  and  the  Information  Kid.  Outside,  the  velvet 
mantle  of  night  draped  a  border  race  track  and 
long  rows  of  stalls  that  stretched  away  like  the 
fingers  of  a  giant  hand.  Overhead,  twinkled  the 
stars  of  Mexico,  looking  down  upon  a  new  camp 
of  the  thoroughbred. 

Earth's  silver  satellite  rose  languidly  from  a 
bed  of  cotton  clouds.  It  was  the  same  moon  that 
smiled  upon  the  first  primitive  love,  and  that  saw 
earth's  children  playing  odd  and  even  with  pebbles 
at  the  closed  gates  of  Eden.  It  was  the  same  pale 
Mistress  of  the  Heavens  that  lighted  the  way  for 
that  lovely  Arabian  who  bore  in  her  teeth  across 
the  desert  to  safety  and  home  the  trussed  form 
of  her  helpless  master. 

Now  the  Queen  of  Night  looked  down  upon 
800  thoroughbreds  resting  in  their  stalls,  and 
upon  the  army  of  slumbering  attendants,  old  and 
young,  conglomerate  of  blood  and  color,  drawn 
from  the  earth's  corners  by  the  lure  of  Fortuna. 

Henry  the  Rat  moved  uneasily,  dreaming  that 
he  was  at  Johnny  Powell's  crap  layout,  and  that 
a  cross-eyed  man  was  threatening  his  run  of  luck. 
The  Information  Kid  burrowed  more  deeply  into 
the  blankets,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  opening 
lines  of  the  book  he  had  discovered  only  that 
night : 

299 


RIDERS  UP! 


*'Mahlek  Ben  Essedin  sings: 
'Horses  are  birds  without  wings' " 

The  twang  of  a  banjo  came  from  across  the 
tanbark  path,  accompanied  by  the  voice  of  Tred- 
well's  dusky  trainer : 

"Mah  old  horse  am  dead  and  gone 
But  he  left  his  jawbone  ploughin    de  corn.'' 

Off  in  the  darkness  a  horse  stamped  restlessly, 
then  another,  and  a  third.  A  shrill  equine  scream 
of  terror  rang  out  like  a  bugle.  Bang  I  Bang! — 
two  pistol  shots. 

The  Information  Kid  and  Henry  the  Rat 
propped  themselves  on  their  elbows.  A  dull  red 
glare  was  eating  its  way  into  the  darkness  that 
lay  beyond  the  open  half-door  of  the  stall.  Even 
as  they  watched  this  phenomenon  stupidly,  elec- 
tric gongs  sounded  in  paddock,  grandstand,  and 
a  score  of  stables.  The  light  grew  brighter,  and 
a  watchman  flashed  past,  shouting  as  he  ran: 

"Get 'em  out,  boys !  Get 'em  out!  The  whole 
damn'  thing's  going!" 

The  two  hustlers  scrambled  from  their  blank- 
ets, and  bolted  from  the  tackle  room.  A  pillar  of 
flame  burst  through  the  roof  of  the  Waterford 
stables,  and  bent  under  the  wind  toward  the  Ster- 
ling barns.    Trainers,  swipes,  and  jockeys  tumbled 

300 


I 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


over  one  another  In  a  desperate  rush  to  turn  loose 
their  charges. 

"Take  this  side,  Henry,"  yelled  the  Kid,  'Til 
take  the  other!  Tie  up  one  foot  if  they  won't 
lead.     Here's  Merry  Hell  for  a  fact  I" 

There  is  nothing  more  terrible  than  a  night  fire 
at  a  race  track.  The  flimsy  buildings,  loaded  with 
feed  and  straw,  yielded  to  the  breath  of  the 
Scarlet  Demon  as  a  train  of  powder  spreads  from 
a  single  match.  Panic-stricken  horses  had  but  one 
instinct — to  remain  in  the  stalls  that  had  always 
meant  safety  and  comfort.  They  could  not  be- 
lieve that  in  the  hour  of  peril  security  was  to  be 
found  elsewhere  than  home. 

In  the  crimson-splashed  darkness,  men  and  boys 
struggled  with  blindfolded  horses,  tugging  them 
toward  the  grass  Infield  where  they  were  turned 
loose,  to  stand  trembling,  or  to  run  wild  as  terror 
prompted.  Pandemonium  increased.  Trainers, 
armed  with  brooms,  stood  at  the  gates,  beating 
back  the  horses  that  tried  to  return  to  the  Inferno. 
Tiny  apprentice  boys,  negro  swipes,  and  hustlers 
like  Henry  the  Rat  and  the  Information  Kid, 
whose  motto  of  life  was:  "What's  In  it?"  risked 
their  lives  again  and  again  In  behalf  of  dumb  ani- 
mals they  neither  owned  nor  knew.  Swearing 
through  smoke-filled  lungs,  they  held  to  the  blis- 
tering task. 

301 


RIDERS  UP! 


Relief  came  In  half  an  hour  on  the  wings  of 
the  north  wind.  Boreas  reinforced  the  counter- 
attack of  the  firefighters,  and  the  flames  were 
driven  back  at  the  gap  which  stretched  between 
the  Montgomery  barns  and  those  to  the  north. 
Gradually,  the  red  flare  subsided,  but  until  dawn 
came,  the  great  circle  Inside  the  mile  track  was  a 
prison  yard  where  kings  and  queens  of  the  turf 
with  sacks  over  their  heads,  galloped  amuck,  and 
no  reckoning  of  loss  could  be  made. 

Then,  in  the  morning,  the  work  of  checking  up 
began.  The  first  train  brought  its  cargo  of  anx- 
ious owners  across  the  border,  and  through  the 
day  others  trickled  in  from  their  Sunday  lay-off. 
Late  In  the  afternoon  there  stumbled  through  the 
south  gate  a  little  shriveled  old  man  In  faded 
clothes.  He  was  Jim  Dunlap,  known  to  the  world 
of  the  paddock  as  "old  Jimmy  Whiskers."  He 
spotted  the  Information  Kid  sleepily  munching  a 
sandwich  outside  the  track  restaurant,  and  he 
clawed  at  the  hustler's  coat.  The  old  man's  lips 
worked  mutely  a  moment,  then  the  word  came : 

*Tolly?" 

"Up  In  smoke,"  said  the  Kid,  wearily,  "she 
and  about  nineteen  others.  I  just  been  looking 
over  the  list." 

A  bullet  through  the  heart  might  have  produce4 
much  the  same  external  effect  on  Jimmy  Whiskers. 

302 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


His  eyes  glazed,  his  body  twitched  spasmodically, 
and  he  toppled  toward  the  hustler,  clawing  for 
support. 

The  Kid  hoisted  his  sandwich  out  of  danger. 
**Now,  now,  Jimmy,"  he  protested,  "don't  throw 
no  fit  around  here.  Cut  it  out,  pal — I've  been 
through  enough  for  one  day;  leggo  me!"  He 
shoved  the  wilted  figure  toward  a  chair,  and 
frowned  disapprovingly. 

Old  Jimmy  Whiskers'  shrunken  body  continued 
to  jerk  and  quiver,  fingers  twitching  at  his  gray 
beard,  eyes  staring  vacantly  at  the  ground.  Pres- 
ently the  sobs  came — harsh  shuddering  sounds 
that  emanated  grotesquely  from  the  diaphragm, 
and  racked  his  frame. 

"My— Polly— Oliver!"  he  choked.  "Gone 
—Polly  Oliver!" 

The  Information  Kid  munched  at  his  sand- 
wich, eyes  contemplating  dispassionately  the  elder 
horseman. 

Out  from  the  clerk's  quarters,  and  across  the 
lawn  in  their  direction,  came  "Black"  Murdoch, 
trainer  for  Baltimore  Ryan,  heavy  between  the 
shoulders,  narrow  between  the  eyes,  dark  of  vis- 
age, and  darker  still  in  his  ways.  He  saw  the 
crumpled  figure  on  the  chair,  stopped — hesitated 
— and  then  approached,  bandaged  hands  swinging 
at  his  sides. 

303 


RIDERS  UP  I 


"Bit  of  tough  luck,  Jimmy,"  he  commiserated. 
*'I  tried  to  get  your  filly  out  but  I  couldn't  quite 
make  it;  damn'  near  cost  me  my  hands.  Fire 
started  next  stable  to  ours,  you  know — and  we 
didn't  have  much  time.  Too  bad — nice  little 
filly — figured  to  be  a  queen  all  right.  I  was 
wondering  if  you  had  her  insured?" 

The  question  was  a  natural  one,  but  some- 
thing in  the  trainer's  voice  prompted  the  Infor- 
mation Kid  to  direct  at  Murdoch  a  swift  look 
from  shrewd  gray  eyes. 

Dunlap's  head  wagged  a  dull  negative.  He 
was  still  dazed,  bereft  of  speech. 

"Too  bad,"  said  Murdoch.  "You  should  have 
protected  yourself,  Jim.    Anything  I  can  do?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  again.  Mur- 
doch's beetled  eyebrows  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  Information  Kid,  but  the  latter  was  appar- 
ently engrossed  in  the  task  of  rolling  a  cigarette 
with  one  hand.  He  showed  no  Interest  in  the 
conversation. 

"I'm  shipping  to  New  Orleans,"  Murdoch  con- 
tinued, "can't  get  any  accommodations  here  now. 
I'd  offer  you  a  job,  Jimmy — but  the  boss  has 
given  me  the  word  to  cut  down.  The  Sheridan 
stables  need  help;  see  them,  Jimmy — and  don't 
take  it  too  hard.  We  all  get  our  bumps,  man — 
all  get 'em!" 

304 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


Polly  Oliver's  owner  gave  no  sign  that  he 
heard.  Murdoch  wavered  irresolutely,  and  then 
moved  away  with  an  awkward:  "Well,  so  long, 
old  man — I  got  to  be  moving." 

The  Information  Kid  watched  the  trainer's 
retreating  form  until  it  disappeared.  Then  he 
eyed  again  the  broken  figure  in  the  chair.  Once 
or  twice  the  hustler  moved  as  though  to  speak, 
but  the  look  on  the  face  of  Jimmy  Whiskers 
checked  the  impulse.  Leaning  against  the  pad- 
dock wall,  he  inhaled  deeply,  and  blew  thin  sprays 
of  gray  smoke  toward  the  lavender  mountains 
that  buttressed  the  horizon.  Deep  in  the  recesses 
of  his  whimsical  imagination,  the  seed  of  a  hunch 
was  germinating. 

There  was  no  racing  that  afternoon.  The  In- 
formation Kid  spent  the  time  in  a  billiard  hall 
outside  the  track,  dexterously  manipulating  the 
Ivories,  but  his  thoughts  all  the  while  were  build- 
ing up  a  vision  of  a  certain  gallant  little  filly,  now 
gone  like  Hiawatha  "in  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  in 
the  purple  mists  of  evening." 

At  dusk,  the  Kid  wandered  back  to  the  track, 
and,  passing  the  scene  of  the  fire,  saw  old  Jimmy 
Whiskers,  hat  in  hand,  standing  at  the  smoldering 
grave  of  his  sweetheart. 

"Huh,"  grunted  the  Kid,  'I'll  tell  the  cock- 
eyed  world  there's  a  picture !     Believe  me  or  no, 

305 


RIDERS  UP! 


gents — that  old  guy's  heart  is  right  there  under 
them  ashes;  yea,  bo  I" 

In  all  truth,  the  Information  Kid,  quixotic 
child  of  the  race  track,  had  diagnosed  the  case  cor- 
rectly. Jimmy  Whiskers  was  a  foolish  old  man, 
and  Polly  Oliver  was  the  inspiration  of  his  fading 
years,  the  sublime  glory  of  his  universe ;  the  beau- 
tiful "Annabelle  Lee"  of  his  dreams.  Strange 
things  happen  on  a  race  track  where  human  der- 
elicts and  equine  aristocrats  fashion  bonds  which 
are  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the  outside 
world. 

Polly  Oliver  was  worthy  of  any  man's  love — 
a  deep-bosomed  two-year  old  of  exquisite  propor- 
tions, eyes  full  of  fire  and  fervor,  ears  alert  and 
slightly  tapering,  throat  clean-cut,  and  small  head 
molded  after  her  mother,  who  was  in  turn  re- 
moved by  only  two  generations  from  a  mare  of 
blessed  memory,  the  first  of  her  sex  to  lead  home 
a  Derby  field.  Polly  was  by  the  Duke  Oliver  out 
of  Lady  Fidelity,  and  she  was  a  bay  which  is  the 
color  of  horse  efficiency,  and  held  by  many  to  be 
more  truly  the  Arab  stock  than  the  white. 

When  Polly  Oliver  was  a  yearling,  galloping  on 
the  Ryan  stock  farm,  old  Jimmy  Whiskers  showed 
up  one  day  with  five  thousand  dollars  accumulated 
by  saving  one  dollar  bills  over  a  period  of  fifteen 
years.     Also  he  held  an  option  on  the  nursery 

306 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


class,  given  him  by  Baltimore  Ryan  as  a  reward 
for  long  ^d  faithful  toil  in  the  latter's  service. 
Out  of  twenty  sleek  and  well-groomed  youngsters, 
Ryan's  former  employer  selected  Lady  Fidelity's 
daughter,  and  led  her  away  triumphantly.  Not 
until  six  months  afterwards,  did  old  Jimmy 
Whiskers  learn  that  "Black"  Murdoch  had  hidden 
away  from  him  that  day  a  half-sister  to  Polly 
Oliver,  out  of  a  different  mother  but  sired  by  the 
same  gallant  stallion.  The  two  fillies  were  iden- 
tical in  appearance  save  that  Polly  had  a  white 
stocking  on  the  right-hind  ankle.  Murdoch  had 
his  own  opinion  as  to  their  respective  values,  and 
he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  drop  a  pearl  into 
the  lap  of  a  man  like  Dunlap.  A  disgruntled 
groom  carried  the  story  to  Jimmy  Whiskers,  but 
the  latter  made  no  protest.  He  believed  that  his 
word  against  Murdoch's  would  be  futile.  But 
that  was  not  the  real  reason  that  he  held  his 
peace.  The  romance  between  Polly  Oliver  and 
her  new  owner  began  with  the  first  caress  of  his 
wrinkled  hand  and  the  responsive  nudge  of  her 
velvet  muzzle  against  his  shoulder  in  the  seclusion 
of  a  box  car.  The  man  had  no  other  interest  in 
life;  no  other  hope;  no  other  love.  All  his  years 
he  had  lived  with  horses,  feeding  them,  rubbing 
them,  blanketing  them,  fondling  them — but  this 
was  the  first  he  had  ever  owned.     Polly  Oliver 

307 


RIDERS  UP! 


was  his,  and,  through  the  mysterious  channels  of 
magnetism  to  which  the  thoroughbred  is  subject 
by  nature,  the  daughter  of  Lady  Fidelity  under- 
stood these  things,  and  was  very  content. 

Now,  it  came  to  pass  that  in  the  classic 
Nursery  Stakes,  fifteen  two-year  olds  lined  up  at 
the  barrier  for  their  maiden  scramble,  and  Polly 
OHver,  ridden  by  "Bubbles"  Jackson,  sixteen  and 
chocolate-hued,  came  home  in  front  at  20  to  i. 
Six  lengths  behind  was  Lantana,  the  very  same 
half-sister  so  zealously  hidden  away  by  "Black'* 
Murdoch.  That  victory  brimmed  the  cup  of 
happiness  for  Polly's  owner,  and  anointed  the 
bonds  that  bound  the  bay  princess  to  her  master. 
Subsequent  workouts  left  little  doubt  that  Polly 
Oliver,  under  the  handling  of  Jimmy  Whiskers, 
was  destined  to  prove  a  better  horse  than  the  one 
retained  by  Murdoch. 

All  these  things  and  a  few  others  were  In  the 
mind  of  the  Information  Kid  who  won  his  pseudo- 
nym by  acquiring  and  retaining  just  such  knowl- 
edge. That  night  he  broached  the  subject  to 
Henry  the  Rat. 

"Did  it  strike  you  there  was  anything  queer 
about  that  fire,  Henry?" 

For  once,  Henry  was  disposed  to  think  that 
something  was  actually  on  the  square.  "I  under- 
stand they  was  shooting  craps  In  the  Waterford 

308 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


feed  room,  and  some  guy  knocked  a  lamp  into 
the  hay." 

''I  don't  mean  that,"  the  Kid  told  him.  'The 
fire  was  an  accident  all  right.  What  I'm  getting 
at  is  this :  Seems  like  they  had  plenty  of  time  to 
get  all  the  horses  out  of  ths  Baltimore  stables, 
didn't  they?" 

"They  did  get  'em  out,"  said  Henry,  "all  ex- 
cept Polly  Oliver,  and  she  don't  belong  to  the 
string.  I  guess  they  forgot  about  her.  Dunlap 
was  away." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Kid,  "here's  a  little  medi- 
cine for  your  bum  ear,  and  for  Gawd's  sake  don't 
spill  it." 

"Shoot,"  said  Henry. 

The  Information  Kid  unpealed  his  hunch. 
"Jimmy  Whiskers  was  away,"  he  reminded,  "and 
Polly  Oliver,  the  baby  that  showed  up  all  the 
Ryan  youngsters,  and  was  poison  in  the  eyes  of 
Black  Murdoch,  was  temporarily  in  a  stall  under 
the  same  roof.  Remember,  Henry,  what  Mur- 
doch said  that  time  when  old  Jimmy  was  boasting 
how  his  filly  run  her  half-sister  deaf,  dumb  and 
blind?" 

"In  the  paddock  at  Latonia?"  questioned 
Henry.  "I  get  you :  he  made  a  crack  about  Polly 
running  her  next  race  in  the  morgue  if  he  had  his 
way  about  it.    I  never  sa^w  a  guy  so  sore." 

309 


RIDERS  UP 


^'That's  it,  boy;  and  now  he  says  he  burned  his 
hands  trying  to  get  her  out.  Ain't  that  a  beauti- 
ful reversal  of  form?" 

*  Whoops!"  scoffed  the  Rat.  ^'He  probably 
burned  his  hands  tying  her  in!" 

"Henry,"  said  the  Kid,  '1  take  back  what  I 
told  you  last  night." 

"What  was  that?" 

"About  you  being  so  awful  dumb.  You  don't 
know  much  about  horses,  Henry — ^but  I'll  tell  the 
wicked  world  you  can  smell  out  a  crook  nice  and 
pretty." 

"Sure,"  agreed  the  Rat  complacently,  "that  guy 
Murdoch  is  so  crooked  he  has  to  sleep  across 
three  beds.  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  the  filly  was 
in  the  last  stall  this  way  and  they  had  all  the  time 
in  the  world  to  get  her." 

The  Information  Kid  nodded  drowsily. 
"Right,"  he  confirmed,  "that  stuff  about  Mur- 
doch's hands  being  burned,  and  the  sympathy 
chatter  I  heard  him  hand  old  Jimmy — goes  for 
the  end  book.  I  know  now  why  he  beat  it  so 
quick.  The  filly  was  murdered.  That's  muh 
diamond  special,  gents — take  it  or  leave  it!" 

"Pretty  good  tip  at  that,"  acknowledged 
, Henry,  "what  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Kid,  "and  you  do  the  same, 
310 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


see?  Just  stick  It  in  the  old  hat  band,  and  don't 
let  the  wind  play  no  tricks." 

''A  word  to  the  wise,"  orated  Henry,  "Is  as 
good  as  a  kick  In  the  slats.  What  time  you  get- 
ting up?" 

"About  five  o'clock." 

This  was  a  professional  pleasantry.  The  In- 
formation Kid  arose  at  3  :30,  taking  good  care 
not  to  disturb  the  slumbers  of  his  colleague.  A 
certain  horse  shipped  from  Reno  for  a  killing,  was 
due  for  a  secret  workout.  The  Kid  knew  It,  and 
Henry  didn't.  Being  fellow-hustlers  they  went 
fifty-fifty  on  all  matters  not  directly  connected 
with  their  main  object  In  life.  When  It  came  to 
uncovering  the  day's  best  bet  In  behalf  of  their 
clients,  they  strove  zealously  to  gyp  each  other, 
trading  tips  only  when  each  believed  that  the 
other  had  the  horse  with  the  longest  price. 

The  good  thing  lived  up  to  Its  works,  and  sub- 
sequently won  by  three  lengths.  That  race  put 
the  Information  Kid  on  easy  street,  and  for  sev- 
eral days  he  forgot  all  about  old  Jimmy  Whiskers 
and  the  latter's  bereavement.  The  matter  was 
recalled  to  mind  In  a  way  that  fixed  itself  perma- 
nently In  his  Imagination. 

Space  was  at  a  premium,  but  there  was  an 
empty  stall  In  the  Sheridan  barns  where  the  owner 
of  Polly  Oliver  was  now  working  as  a  groom. 

311 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  Information  Kid,  on  his  eternal  quest  for 
knowledge,  came  upon  this  gap  in  the  ranks  of 
horseflesh. 

The  feed  box  had  been  recently  replenished 
and  a  fresh  bucket  of  water  was  placed  just  out- 
side. New  blankets  hung  over  the  half-door,  and 
on  the  wall  there  was  a  new  halter  ornamented  by 
a  faded  bow  of  gray  and  lavender. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  barn  came  Dunlap, 
quiet  and  unobtrusive  as  usual. 

"H'lo,  Jimmy,'^  the  Kid  greeted.  "What  be- 
longs in  here?** 

The  old  man  turned  placid  eyes  upon  the 
hustler. 

"That's  my  stall.'' 

"Your  stall?    You  got  another  horse?" 

"Nope,  never  will  own  but  the  one  I  guess. 
She's  good  enough  for  me,  Kid ;  good  enough  for 
old  Jimmy." 

He  disappeared  into  an  adjoining  stall,  and 
clucked  persuasively  to  a  5  year  old  black  gelding 
who  was  due  for  a  workout.  The  Information 
Kid  wrinkled  his  nose,  stared  blankly  a  moment, 
and  then  went  in  search  of  Steve  Borrell  who 
trained  for  Sheridan.  He  located  the  trainer  in 
another  barn. 

"Say,"  he  demanded,  "What's  the  idea  of  old 
Jimmy  Whiskers  renting  that  empty  stall?" 

312 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


Borrell  spread  his  hands  deprecatingly.  "I'm 
just  humoring  him.  He's  a  good  man  around 
horses,  and  most  swipes  are  cuckoo  about  some- 
thing or  other.  He's  keeping  Polly  Oliver  alive 
in  his  memory,  and  paying  for  it  out  of  his  wages. 
It's  either  that  or  the  long  black  box  for  the  old 
fool.  He  was  nuts  about  that  filly.  I  figure  it 
will  wear  off.    Who  do  you  like  in  the  handicap?" 

*'rm  giving  Captain  Adams  on  his  works.  He's 
been  getting  bad  rides.  If  they  switch  to  a  good 
boy  this  afternoon,  look  out." 

Borrell  nodded  and  moved  away.  The  Infor- 
mation Kid  swung  over  to  the  track,  perched  on 
the  top  rail,  and  clocked  a  few  babies  from  the 
Driscoll  string.  They  were  a  poor  lot,  and  he 
gave  it  up,  his  mind  reverting  to  that  empty 
stall  with  the  newly-filled  fodder  trough. 

"Well,"  he  mused,  "I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed 
world  a  racetrack  is  a  funny  place.  Think  of  a 
guy  paying  out  his  wages  on  an  empty  stall,  and 
fitting  it  out  with  food  and  water  for  a  horse 
that's  dead.  Pitiful,  says  I — that's  the  word, 
gents — pitiful  as  hell!'* 

In  the  succeeding  days,  the  story  of  Jimmy 
Whiskers  and  his  empty  stall  gradually  spread 
around  the  track,  and  was  even  chronicled  in  the 
papers  by  the  turf  reporters  as  a  bit  of  "human 
interest  copy."  The  subject,  however,  was  worthy 

313 


RIDERS  UP! 


of  only  passing  interest.  In  the  language  of  the 
hardboots,  the  old  man  was  a  "goofy,"  and  that's 
all  there  was  to  it.  The  Information  Kid  alone 
remained  impressed.  That  was  because  his  fa- 
vorite literature,  outside  of  the  overnight  entries, 
was  the  Arabian  Nights.  His  imagination  was 
forever  bridging  the  gap  between  those  classic 
tales  and  the  oddities  of  modern  life  as  seen 
through  the  eyes  of  a  hustler.  Openly  he  espoused 
the  cause  of  Jimmy  Whiskers,  and  the  latter  re- 
sponded by  unbosoming  himself  of  the  idea  that 
was  keeping  the  old  man  alive. 

*'You  mark  my  words,  Kid,"  he  said,  one  after- 
noon, "just  as  sure  as  we're  talking  right  here, 
some  night  I'll  wake  up,  and  see  Polly  Oliver 
standing  outside  her  stall,  waiting  for  me  to  let 
her  in.  I  got  up  three  times  last  night  and  looked 
out.  Seemed  like  I  could  almost  hear  her  walk- 
ing towards  me.    I  ain't  crazy." 

*'0f  course,  you  ain't,"  the  Kid  agreed,  "if  you 
feel  that  strong  about  her,  it's  a  hunch,  and  you're 
perfectly  right  in  playin'  it  that  way." 

"You  see.  Kid,  she  was  my  horse,  and  she  got 
so  she  could  talk  to  me " 

"Talk?" 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  Once  she  was 
acting  fretful  before  a  race,  and  neither  her  jock 
or  any  one  else  could  tell  what  was  the  matter 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


until  I  come  along.  Then  Polly  she  looks  at  me 
with  those  beautiful  eyes  of  hers,  and  whimpered 
a  bit — and  I  just  seemed  to  know  there  was  a 
foxtail  in  her  nose.  Nobody  could  figure  out 
how  I  guessed  it  so  quick.  The  answer  was  that 
Polly  told  me ;  just  like  I  knew  something  terrible 
had  happened  the  night  of  the  fire.  I  was  in  a 
theater,  and  I  got  right  up  and  come  out.  But  I 
missed  the  night  train,  and  had  to  lay  over.  Now, 
I'm  telling  you — Kid — my  little  girl  is  speaking 
to  me  again.  So:ne  day,  she's  going  to  find  her 
way  home,  and  that's  why  I'm  keeping,  the  stall 
always  ready." 

The  Information  Kid's  eyes  softened.  He  laid 
a  consoling  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  ^'That's 
right,  Jimmy — keep  the  home  fires  burning.  Keep 
the  old  head  up,  says  I.  That's  muh  rule  of  life, 
pal — keep  the  old  head  up.  And  if  you  got  a 
good  hunch — ride  it,  bo,  ride  it!" 

Under  this  sort  of  encouragement,  Jimmy 
Whiskers  retained  his  empty  stall,  and  patiently 
awaited  the  time  v/hen  Polly  Oliver  should  emu- 
late the  fabled  Phoenix,  and  rise  miraculously 
from  the  mass  of  scorched  flesh  and  bones  long 
since  buried  in  Mexican  soil. 

The  days  passed.  The  bugle  continued  to  call 
the  bang  tails  to  the  post — youngsters,  veterans, 
selling  platers,  stake  horses,  all  had  their  oppor- 

315 


RIDERS  UP 


tunity.  One  after  another  the  feature  events  of 
the  season  were  run  off;  "good  things"  material- 
ized or  blew  up;  men  ran  shoestrings  Into  bank- 
rolls, tempted  their  luck  too  much,  and  went  back 
to  washing  dishes.  But  the  name  of  Polly  Oliver 
graced  no  entry  list,  and  the  gray  and  lavender 
colors  remained  pinned  to  an  empty  halter  In  a 
vacant  stall.  Get-Away-Day  came,  marking  an- 
other dispersal  for  the  tribe  of  the  whip  and 
spurs.  Some  stables  were  moving  south  to 
Mexico  City,  others  to  Tijuana,  but  the  majority 
looked  northward  to  winter  quarters  on  home 
soil.  The  Sheridan  string  was  scheduled  to  cam- 
paign at  New  Orleans,  the  destination  of  most  of 
the  special  trains  that  were  puffing  toward  the 
border. 

**Going  to  follow  the  stable,  Jimmy?"  ques- 
tioned the  Information  Kid. 

The  old  man  acquiesced  dully.  "Guess  I'll  have 
to,  son.  Mr.  Borrell  Is  going  to  save  me  a  stall. 
He's  pretty  nice.  Kid,  pretty  nice." 

"Still  buying  feed  for  Polly  Oliver,  Jimmy? 
Still  figure  she'll  show  up?" 

Dunlap  nodded,  but  his  faded  eyes  were  misty, 
and  his  face  downcast.  The  Information  Kid 
looked  away,  appreciating  that  It  was  going  to  be 
hard  for  Jimmy  Whiskers  to  keep  up  the  fiction, 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


once  he  had  turned  his  back  on  the  spot  where  he 
had  last  seen  his  beloved  filly  alive. 

"Distance  don't  mean  nothing  to  a  stake 
horse,"  the  Kid  comforted.  "She  could  come  to 
New  Orleans  just  as  well  as  anywhere,  Jimmy. 
Like  as  not  she  may  be  there  already,  just  waiting 
for  you  to  show  up." 

"Think  so.  Kid?  Sometimes  I  feel  at  night 
that  if  I  was  to  get  up  and  just  walk,  and  walk, 
and  walk  until  I  couldn't  go  any  further — Polly 
would  come  the  balance  of  the  way  to  meet  me." 

Jimmy's  auditor  deemed  it  advisable  to  say: 

"Don't  do  nothing  like  that.  Just  work  nice 
and  pretty  for  the  Sheridan  outfit  and  stick  close 
to  Polly's  stall  at  nights,  so  you  won't  miss  her 
when  she  comes  looking  for  you,  see?  Lll  hunt 
you  up  when  we  get  to  New  Orleans." 

But,  when,  a  week  later,  the  new  arrivals  were 
settled  in  the  park  outside  the  Crescent  City,  Fate 
ordained  that  the  Sheridan  stables  should  directly 
adjoin  the  Baltimore  Ryan  quarters,  and  that 
Black  Murdoch  should  learn  from  the  lips  of 
Steve  Borrell  about  Jimmy  Whiskers  and  the 
vacant  stall  that  was  reserved  for  Polly  Oliver. 

"The  old  fool,"  said  Murdoch.  "I  saw  the 
filly  burn  up  with  my  own  eyes.  Got  the  scars  yet 
from  trying  to  get  her  out.  I  wouldn't  encourage 
a  nut  like  that,  Steve.    No  telling  what  he's  liable 

317 


RIDERS  UP! 


to  do.  I  wouldn't  trust  him  around  my  horses. 
If  he  says  Polly  Oliver  to  me,  I'll  crown  him." 

Borrell  pursed  his  lips  thoughtfully.  "You 
may  be  right  at  that,"  he  admitted.  "I  thought 
the  thing  would  wear  off,  but  the  old  man  seems 
to  be  getting  worse.  Guess  I'd  better  let  him  go 
before  he  starts  something." 

But  Sheridan's  trainer  was  spared  the  necessity 
of  dismissing  Jimmy  Whiskers.  From  a  stall 
just  back  of  where  the  two  men  had  been  stand- 
ing, Polly's  owner  had  overheard  the  conversa- 
tion. The  next  day  he  voluntarily  moved  his  be- 
longings to  a  barn  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
grounds,  and  thereafter  shunned  human  Inter- 
course as  much  as  possible.  The  Information  Kid 
learned  the  reason  for  this  move,  and  expressed 
his  sentiments  concerning  Murdoch  In  three  lan- 
guages, English,  Mexican,  and  profane. 

''Don't  you  mind  that  guy,  old-timer,"  he  said 
to  Dunlap.  "He's  just  afraid  Polly  will  come 
back  and  beat  Lantana." 

"She'll  do  It,  too,"  said  Jimmy  Whiskers. 
"Kid,  something  tells  me  I'm  pretty  near  to 
Polly — pretty  near  the  end  of  the  trail.  Kid." 

The  Information  Kid  shot  a  swift  glance  at 
the  old  man,  but  said  nothing.  He  kept  his  peace 
until  he  and  Henry  the  Rat  were  alone  In  the 

318 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


room  that  they  shared  downtown.  Then  he  bared 
his  thoughts. 

"You  know,  Henry — I  think  old  Whiskers  is 
about  through.  The  old  boy  is  failing  pretty  fast. 
He  can't  kid  himself  along  much  further." 

'Well,"  said  the  Rat,  "he  ought  to  take  a  shot 
at  Murdoch  before  he  goes.  They  tell  me  Polly's 
half-sister  come  pretty  near  turning  the  trick  her- 
self." 

The  Information  Kid  was  interested.  *'Yeah, 
how's  that?" 

"Kicked  Murdoch  in  the  ribs,  and  put  him  in 
the  hospital  for  three  weeks.  I  was  talking  to  a 
stable  kid  this  morning,  and  he  says  Lantana's 
been  a  different  horse  ever  since  the  fire.  Works 
fine,  but  goes  crazy  if  she  hears  Murdoch's  voice 
— just  sweats  and  trembles  all  over.  Blackie  has 
to  signal  his  orders  to  the  exercise  kid.  If  the 
filly  hears  his  voice,  it's  all  off." 

The  Information  Kid  was  thrilled.  "You  see, 
Henry?"  he  exclaimed — "That  poetry  I  was 
reading  you  wasn't  the  bunk  at  all.  Lantana 
knows  what  happened  to  her  sister.  A  horse  can 
see  things  that  we  can't.  I  tell  you,  Henry — a 
crook  has  got  no  chance  to  win  the  confidence  of  a 
thoroughbred." 

"You  said  something,"  muttered  the  Rat 
drowsily,  "I  hope  she  croaks  him." 

319 


RIDERS  UP! 


They  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  Three  morn- 
ings later,  with  the  cold  wind  of  dawn  whistling 
down  the  back  stretch,  the  Kid  perched  shivering 
on  the  top  rail,  watch  in  hand,  drearily  perform- 
ing the  duties  of  his  office.  His  eyes  were  on  the 
distant  half-mile  post  when  the  gray  shadow  of 
a  horse  broke  from  canter  to  full  stride  as  it 
passed  that  point.  Automatically,  the  Kid's 
thumb  pressed  downward.  The  watch  clicked, 
and  across  its  surface  a  hand  moved  jerkily.  The 
equine  shadow  was  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  far 
turn,  but  presently  the  muffled  beat  of  hoofs 
sounded  into  the  stretch  and  a  little  later  a  single 
horse  came  flashing  along  the  rail,  its  rider  sitting 
low  in  the  saddle.  They  were  gone  again  like 
the  wind,  but  not  before  the  Kid's  watch  had 
clicked  again.  He  noted  the  time,  and  whistled 
incredulously.  Then  he  slid  from  his  perch,  and 
cut  sharply  across  the  infield  to  assure  himself 
that  he  had  made  no  mistake  regarding  the  iden- 
tity of  the  speed  marvel.  A  groom  with  a  blan- 
ket ran  out  from  the  Ryan  barns. 

*'It's  Lantana,  all  right,"  the  Kid  muttered. 
''Murdoch  is  up  to  his  old  tricks.  Two  races  in 
which  she  doesn't  show  a  thing,  and  now,  here 
she  is,  in  bandages  and  ice,  and  ready  to  run  over 
the  moon.  I  suppose  they'll  turn  on  the  speed 
faucet   in   the   Juvenile    Stakes    next    Saturday. 

320 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


Forty  to  one  and  their  money  back.     What  a 
beautiful  thought!" 

He  made  his  way  soberly  to  the  track  res- 
taurant humming  the  national  anthem  of  the 
hustlers:  "Every  little  movement  has  a  meaning 
all  its  own." 

He  was  crouching  over  a  plate  of  ham  and 
eggs,  dreamily  meditating  on  the  significance  of 
that  early  morning  workout,  when  knife  and  fork 
slipped  from  his  grasp  and  he  jerked  himself 
upright,  knocking  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  into  the  lap 
of  a  fellow  patron  at  his  side. 

"May  the  Lord  bless  the  King  of  the  World," 
he  gasped,  quoting  from  his  beloved  Arabian 
Nights.  "Thy  servant  beats  your  commands  on 
his  head " 

"Say,  what  the  hell's  the  idea?"  protested  the 
recipient  of  the  hot  coffee.  "You  looking  for  a 
crack  in  the  jaw,  or  sump'n?" 

The  Information  Kid  blinked  stupidly.  "Ex- 
cuse me,  pal,"  he  pleaded,  "I  just  thought  of 
something."  Mechanically,  he  swabbed  the  trou- 
sers of  the  indignant  victim,  tossed  the  napkin 
aside,  and  headed  for  the  door. 

"Hey!"  commanded  the  cashier.  "This  ain't 
a  Salvation  Army  booth.     Come  back  here  1" 

The  Kid  apologized  a  second  time,  and  slid  a 
half  dollar  along  the  counter.     "My  mistake  and 

321 


RIDERS  UP! 


your  treat,"  he  muttered,  and  made  his  way  out, 
leaving  behind  him  an  unfinished  breakfast,  and 
a  puzzled  proprietor. 

Once  outside,  he  paused  to  twist  one  ear  re- 
flectively and  stare  at  the  brightening  sky. 

*'Gawdamighty  I"  he  breathed,  "either  I'm  full 
of  hop,  or  I  know  something.  Yea  bo,  I'm  going 
down  in  the  old  pickle  vat  after  this  one.  Before 
you're  much  balder,  gents — I'll  have  the  answer 
in  my  lily  white  mitt." 

But  it  was  three  days  before  the  Information 
Kid,  smart  hustler  that  he  was,  had  come  to  cer- 
tain conclusions;  three  days  of  nervous  tension 
such  as  he  had  seldom  known;  cautious  maneuver- 
ing that  finally  brought  him  to  the  point  where 
nothing  remained  but  a  take-a-chance  bet  with  the 
possibility  of  dire  consequences.  On  the  after- 
noon of  the  third  day,  he  strolled  down  to  Jimmy 
Whisker's  hermitage. 

The  old  man  was  sitting  on  a  stool  in  the  fading 
sunlight,  plaiting  a  bit  of  rope.  He  nodded  a 
return  to  the  Kl.d's  greeting. 

"Still  got  the  old  fodder-trough  filled,  Jimmy?" 

Dunlap's  lips  quivered.  "Reckon  I'm  pretty 
much  of  an  old  fool.  Kid — ^but  there  don't  seem 
nothing  else  for  me  to  do,  but  just  sit  here  and 
wait.  Last  night  I  dreamed  about  Polly  again. 
I  was  in  the  paddock  with  her — and  she  was  just 

322 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


going  to  the  post  in  the  Juvenile  Stakes — had  my 
colors  plaited  in  her  mane — and  I  was  talkin'  to 
her — talking  to — talkin'. '^  He  stopped,  and  bent 
his  head. 

The  Information  Kid  lit  a  cigarette,  and  spoke 
rapidly. 

"It's  a  hunch,  pal — it's  a  sure-fire  hunch. 
Dreamed  about  her  myself  last  night.  Swear  to 
Gawd  I  did.  Told  Henry  the  Rat  there  was 
somethin'  doing.  'Fat  chance  !*  says  he.  'Never 
mind,'  says  I.  There's  lots  of  funny  things  hap- 
pen on  a  track.  Keep  the  old  head  up  just  a 
little  bit  longer,  Jimmy — ^keep  the  home  fires 
burnin'  for  Polly  Oliver." 

"I  will,"  said  Jimmy  Whiskers,  "she  was  my 
horse." 

"Atta  ol'  boy  I"  said  the  Kid,  "just  wait  nice 
and  pretty." 

He  waved  a  careless  hand,  walked  on  up  the 
track,  and  paused  around  the  turn. 

'Til  do  it!"  he  decided.  "Shoot  the  whole 
works,"  says  I,  *'play  your  horse  right  on  his  old 
smeller,  and  if  you  can't  bear  to  watch  it,  close 
your  eyes  'til  it's  over!" 

He  pulled  his  cap  more  firmly  over  his  eyes,  and 
stalked  toward  the  Torrington  barns  where  a 
crap  game  usually  started  after  the  last  race. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night,  the  Information  Kid 
323 


RIDERS  UP! 


entered  the  lobby  of  the  little  hotel  just  outside 
the  stable  entrance  to  the  track,  spotted  Black 
Murdoch  sitting  in  his  accustomed  place,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  side  of  the  trainer. 

"Come  on  outside,"  he  whispered.  "I've  got 
something  important  for  you." 

The  hustler's  manner  was  impressive.  Mur- 
doch arose  and  followed  his  visitor  to  the  side- 
walk. 

"Now,"  said  the  Kid,  "you  had  the  right  dope 
about  old  Jimmy  Whiskers  being  dangerous. 
That  empty  stall  is  the  bunk,  understand?  You've 
been  heading  for  a  sweet  little  death  right  along, 
.and  you  never  got  wise.  Come  with  me,  and 
you'll  learn  something." 

Murdoch's  swarthy  visage  blanched. 

"What  are  you  handing  me?"  he  growled. 

"I'm  handing  you  the  best  tip  you  ever  got  in 
your  life,"  the  Kid  assured  him.  "Don't  ask  no 
more  questions,  but  come  with  me,  and  I'll  show 
you  the  world's  champion  frame-up." 

"Where?" 

"In  an  empty  stall.  Jimmy  Whiskers  ain't 
there.  Hurry  it  up,  I  tell  you.  This  is  life  or 
death." 

The  Kid  had  judged  his  man  correctly.  Mur- 
doch accompanied  him,  asking  questions  as  he 
went  along. 

324 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


"Keep  your  shirt  on,"  the  hustler  told  him. 
"You'll  see  the  whole  thing  In  a  minute." 

They  turned  In  through  the  gate,  showing  their 
badges  to  a  watchman,  and  walked  north  in  the 
darkness  until  they  came  to  the  Sheridan  barns. 
The  Kid  took  his  companion  by  the  arm. 

"In  here,"  he  directed,  "and  for  Gawd's  sake, 
don't  strike  no  matches.  It's  the  third  stall  on 
the  left." 

"I  thought  the  old  fool  had  moved  out  of 
here,"  said  Murdoch. 

"That's  the  point,"  retorted  the  Kid.  "He's 
moving  back.  Here  we  are.  Now,  can  you  make 
out  what's  under  the  feed-box?" 

"I  can't  see.     It's  too  dark." 

"Bend  down  like  I  am.  Now  feel  what  I  got 
in  my  hands." 

Murdoch's  body  bent  forward.  His  fingers 
groped  along  the  Kid's  arms,  and  suddenly  en- 
countered cold  steel  that  imprisoned  both  wrists 
with  a  sinister  click.  The  spasmodic  upward 
fling  of  the  trainer's  arms  was  checked  by  a  chain 
that  connected  handcuffs  to  fodder-trough.  At 
almost  the  same  instant,  a  light  dustcloth,  with  a 
sponge  as  gag,  was  passed  swiftly  over  Murdoch's 
mouth  and  tied  In  back.  He  struggled  desperately 
against  a  rope  that  was  drawn  tight  around  his 
ankles — lost  his  balance — and  toppled  prostrate. 
325 


RIDERS  UP! 


The  Information  Kid  left  the  stall,  walked  along 
the  corridor,  and  turned  on  a  wall  light.  Then  he 
came  back,  and  surveyed  his  captive. 

"Some  little  frame-up,  ain't  it,  pal?"  he  leered, 
and  in  his  voice  there  was  a  note  that  struck 
terror  to  the  heart  of  Murdoch.  Guttural  plead- 
ings escaped  from  the  sponge  and  wrappings. 

"No  use,"  said  the  Kid.  "From  now  on,  Vm 
going  to  do  all  the  talking.  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
the  story  of  Jimmy  Whiskers  and  the  empty  stall 
that  he's  been  keeping  for  a  dead  horse." 

And  there  in  the  semi-darkness,  the  Kid  leaned 
calmly  against  the  wooden  partition  and  narrated 
the  romance  of  an  old  man  and  his  lost  love.  It 
was  a  curious  version,  embroidered  with  phrases 
that  the  narrator  had  absorbed  from  the  Arabian 
Nights,  and  interspersed  with  the  whimsical  slang 
of  the  race  track.  And  it  reached  a  conclusion  as 
fantastic  and  startling  as  the  setting  in  which  it 
was  told.  The  Information  Kid  wagged  a  finger 
at  his  sole  auditor. 

"And  so,  Murdoch — the  old  guy  is  just  hang- 
ing on  from  day  to  day,  waiting  for  Polly  Oliver. 
He  thinks  Polly  will  come  to  life  again.  'He's 
crazy,'  says  you,  and  of  course  you're  right.  The 
little  filly  is  under  the  dirt  in  Mexico.  You  let 
her  burn.  And  just  because  you  did,  pal — just 
because  Polly  can't  come  back  to  Jimmy  Whis- 

326 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


kers,  you're  going  to  the  same  place  she  went, 
and  you're  going  in  the  very  same  way.  I  said 
you  were  going  to  learn  something,  didn't  I?  All 
right,  you're  going  to  learn  the  shortest  cut  to 
hell." 

The  figure  on  the  floor  threshed  in  a  convulsion 
of  protest.  The  Information  Kid  disappeared  a 
moment,  and  came  back  with  an  armful  of  straw. 
He  vanished  again,  and  returned  carrying  a  five- 
gallon  coal  oil  can,  the  contents  of  which  he  emp- 
tied on  the  floor  and  walls  of  the  stall.  The  cold 
liquid  soaked  through  and  reached  the  skin  of 
Black  Murdoch.  It  was  no  colder  than  the  sweat 
that  beaded  his  gray  face.  From  one  pocket  the 
Kid  produced  the  stump  of  a  candle.  He  lit  it, 
and  gingerly  made  a  place  for  the  flaming  wax  in 
a  corner  where  it  could  burn  down  to  within  reach 
of  the  soaked  straw.  Then  he  nodded  grimly  at 
his  victim. 

*'You  have  my  best  regards,"  he  admonished 
softly,  ''and  may  your  conscience  guide  you  I  So 
long  I" 

Ten  feet  down  the  corridor  he  stopped  and 
waited  for  the  situation  to  work  its  charm.  Pres- 
ently he  retraced  his  steps.  Apparently  the  Kid 
only  wished  to  assure  himself  that  the  gag  was 
still  secure.  He  fumbled  clumsily  a  moment,  and 
then  the  sponge  and  cloth  slipped  from  place. 
327 


RIDERS  UP! 


Instantly,  Murdoch  spun  over  on  his  chest,  striv- 
ing desperately  to  fight  off  the  gag.  The  truth 
foamed  from  his  lips  as  fast  as  shattered  nerves 
could  hurl  it. 

"She's  alive — I  tell  you  I — Polly's  alive  I  I 
didn't  burn  her !  For  God's  sake.  Kid — let  me  go 
— Listen,  Kid — listen!" 

"You're  a  liar,"  said  the  Kid.     "Polly's  dead." 

Murdoch's  head  rolled  in  frenzied  negative. 

"I  switched  'em,"  he  gasped,  "switched  'em 
during  the  fire.  I  tell  you  I  did.  I  tied  Lantana 
in  her  sister's  stall.  Took  Polly  away  and  cov- 
ered up  her  white  stockings  with  dye  and  then 
bandages.  Forty  to  one  next  Saturday.  Don't 
squeal.  Kid — and  we'll  split.  My  God,  boy, 
there's  a  fortune  in  it  for  both  of  us.  Let  me  up, 
Kid.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  We're  pals 
now,  ain't  we?" 

The  Information  Kid  drew  a  deep  breath.  Vic- 
tory was  his. 

"What  could  be  fairer?"  he  said,  and  knocked 
the  candle  into  a  pool  of  liquid  on  the  floor. 
Murdoch  hunched  away. 

"Only  water,"  assured  the  Kid  pleasantly. 
"This  straw  wouldn't  burn  now  on  a  bet.  Blackie, 
you  ain't  got  much  nerve  after  all.  You  never 
should  have  asked  old  Jimmy  whether  he  had 
Polly  insured.     You  were  scared  that  if  she  was 

328 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


covered  some  of  these  insurance  wiseheimers 
would  want  proof  before  they  paid  their  dough 
out.  You  made  a  second  mistake  when  you  let 
Polly  work  a  half-mile  in  .47  without  first  putting 
knockout-drops  in  muh  coffee.  Yea  bo!  Lantana 
couldn't  work  quite  that  fast  on  this  track." 

He  loosened  the  leather  strap  around  Mur- 
doch's legs  and  the  latter  arose  clumsily,  holding 
out  his  manacled  wrists.  The  Kid  felt  for  the 
key,  found  it,  and  the  handcuffs  opened.  Mur- 
doch stretched  his  brawny  arms  and  then  lashed 
out  with  a  huge  doubled  fist.  The  Information 
Kid  crumpled  against  the  wall. 

''That's  where  you  made  your  mistake," 
grunted  Murdoch,  and  was  in  the  act  of  swinging 
again,  when  three  figures  rushed  from  the  adjoin- 
ing stall,  and  overpowered  him.  He  looked  up 
to  recognize  Baltimore  Ryan,  his  employer.  The 
other  two  men  were  clad  in  the  uniform  of  track 
police.  Ryan's  eyes  were  ablaze,  for  the  gentle- 
man from  Baltimore  was  a  sportsman  of  the  first 
water. 

"Murdoch,"  said  Ryan  grimly,  ''these  men  will 
take  you  as  far  as  the  street.  You're  a  crook,  a 
coward,  and  a  murderer.  Don't  ever  let  me  hear 
of  you  trying  to  enter  any  race  track  in  America 
so  long  as  you  live.    Now,  unless  this  young  man 

has  a  charge  to  prefer  against  you " 

329 


RIDERS  UP! 


"Huh  I"  said  the  Kid,  '^that  guy  will  remember 
me  without  no  further  help." 

"All  right,"  said  Ryan.  "Take  him  out  of 
here  before  I  kill  him." 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  sportsman  from  Balti- 
more and  the  Information  Kid  entered  the  Ryan 
barns,  and  made  their  way  to  Lantana's  stall, 
where  a  two-year-old  bay  flexed  dainty  ears  for- 
ward and  back,  and  stomped  restlessly.  The  Kid 
produced  a  knife,  slit  the  bandages  from  the  filly's 
right  hind  leg,  and  rubbed  the  hair  gently  with  a 
sponge  soaked  in  turpentine.  Ryan  directed  the 
rays  of  a  pocket  lamp  downward.  The  brown 
hair  lost  color  gradually,  changing  to  a  streaky 
white. 

"That's  enough,"  said  Ryan.  "It's  Polly  all 
right,  and  for  the  sake  of  old  Jimmy  I'm  mighty 
glad  of  it." 

"You're  a  sport,"  affirmed  the  hustler.  "Let's 
take  her  where  she  belongs." 

He  slipped  a  halter  over  Polly's  handsome 
head,  and  led  the  daughter  of  Lady  Fidelity  out 
on  the  tanbark,  Ryan  walking  at  his  side. 

Night's  soft  hands  had  smoothed  away  the 
wrinkles  of  dilapidation  from  the  old  park. 
Once  again  the  ancient  moon  was  smiling  down 
upon  earth's  children.  The  shingled  temples  of 
the  thoroughbred  rimmed  a  race  track  that  in 

330 


THE  EMPTY  STALL 


turn  circled  a  vast  expanse  of  emerald  lawn. 
Hustler  and  millionaire  paused  outside  the  her- 
mitage of  old  Jimmy  Whiskers.  Polly  Oliver 
raised  her  head  interrogatively,  and  stared  at 
her  surroundings. 

*'Here,  you  hold  her,"  said  the  Kid.  "This  is 
going  to  be  good." 

He  tip-toed  toward  the  open  half-door  of  a 
stall  where  a  bow  of  gray  and  lavender  ribbon 
hung  on  the  wall.  The  door  yielded  to  his  hand. 
He  lit  a  match,  and  by  its  flare  saw  the  figure  of 
old  Jimmy  Whiskers  asleep  on  the  floor.  One 
arm  was  outstretched  as  though  in  search  of  some- 
thing that  was  not  there.  The  match  burned 
itself  out.    A  lump  rose  in  the  Kid's  throat. 

"Gee,"  he  breathed,  "I'm  sure  going  to  get  a 
swell  kick  out  of  this!  It's  just  like  them  tales 
in  the  book.  How  does  that  one  start  now? 
Oh,  ye-ah — 'Praise  be  to  Allah,  the  Beneficent 
King,  Lord  of  the  Three  Worlds;  Blessing  be 
upon  our  Lord  Mohammed  and  upon  His  Family 
and  Companion  Train.  It  has  reached  me,  O 
Auspicious  King '  " 

He  bent  down  and  shook  the  old  man  gently 
by  the  shoulder. 

"Hey,  Jimmy,"  he  whispered.  "Wake  up,  old- 
timer.    Polly  Oliver's  come  home!" 


THE  END  (1' 


\ 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


.vft  28  ^'''3 

NOV  26  1935 

JUN    24  1537 

JUL  20AS3T 
.Es     1  1938 

NOV  10  193ll 


LOAN  De.PT- 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


S55A(»t. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


